The philosophy of sleep

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THE

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SLEEP.

BY

ROBERT MACNISH,

AUTHOR OF “ THE ANATOMY OF DRUNKENNESS,”’ AND MEMBER OF THE FACULTY
OF PHYSICIANS AND SURGEONS OF GLASGOW.

SECOND EDITION.

GLASGOW: W. R. M‘PHUN.

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HIST@RICAL
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GLASGOW :
EDWARD KRULL, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY.

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JOHN K. MACNISH, Eso.

LATE PRESIDENT OF THE FACULTY OF PHYSICIANS

AND SURGEONS OF GLASGOW,
THIS WORK
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
BY HIS SON,

THE AUTHOR,

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PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

THE present Edition of Taz Patnosopny or SLEEP
is so different from its predecessor, that it may
almost be regarded as a new treatise. The work has
been, ina great measure, re-written, the arrange-
ment altered, and a great accession made to the
number of facts and cases: the latter, many of
which are now published for the first time, will, I
hope, add much to its value. Some of them have
occurred in my own practice; and for others, I am
indebted to the kindness of several ingenious friends.
Notwithstanding every care, the work is far from
being what it ought to be, and what I could have
wished ; but, imperfect as it is, it may, perhaps,
stimulate some other inquirer to-investigate the sub-
ject more deeply, and thus give rise to an abler dis-

quisition. So far as I know, this is the only treatise

Vili
in which an attempt is made to give a complete
account of Sleep. The subject is not an easy one;
and, in the present state of our knowledge, mode-

rate success is probably all that can be looked for.

In the first Edition, Dr. Gall’s theory, that the
brain is composed of a plurality of organs, each
organ being the seat of a particular mental faculty,
was had recourse to for the purpose of explaining
the different phenomena of Sleep; in the present
Edition, this doctrine is more prominently brought
forward. The great objection to the prevailing
metaphysical systems is, that none of their positions
can be proved; and that scarcely two writers agree
upon any particular point. The disciples of Gall,
on the other hand, assume that his system having
ascertainable facts to illustrate it, is at all times sus-
ceptible of demonstration—that nothing is taken for
granted; and that the inquirer has only to make an
appeal to nature to ascertain its fallacy or its truth.
The science is entirely one of observation : by that it
must stand or fall, and by that alone ought it to be

tested. The phrenological system appears to me

1x
the only one capable of affording a rational and easy
explanation of all the phenomena of mind. It is
impossible to account for dreaming, idiocy, spectral
illusions, monomania, and partial genius in any
other way. For these reasons, and for the much
stronger one, that having studied the science for
several years with a mind rather hostile than other-
wise to its doctrines, and found that nature in-
variably vindicated their truth, I could come to no
other conclusion than that of adopting them as a
matter of belief, and employing them for the ex-
planation of phenomena which they alone seem cal-
culated to elucidate satisfactorily. The system of
Gall is gaining ground rapidly among scientific men,
both in Europe and America. Some of the ablest
physiologists in both quarters of the globe have ad-
mitted its accordance with nature; and, at this
moment, it boasts a greater number of proselytes
than at any previous period of its career. The pre-
Judices still existing against it, result from ignorance
of its real character. As people get better acquaint-
ed with the science, and the formidable evidence by

which it is supported, they will think differently.

x

Many persons who deny the possibility of esti-
mating individual character, with any thing like
accuracy, by the shape of the head, admit the great
phrenological principle that the brain is composed
of a plurality of organs. To them, as well as to
those who go a step farther, the doctrine laid down
in the present work will appear satisfactory. An
admission that the brain is the material apparatus
by which the mind manifests itself, and that each
mental faculty is displayed through the medium of
a particular part of the brain, is all that is de-
manded in considering the philosophy of the science.
These points are only to be ascertained by an ap-
peal to nature. No man can wisely reject phrenology

without making such an appeal.

A chapter on Spectral Illusions is now added, that
subject having been unaccountably overlooked in

the first Edition.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

PAGE
MNGPORUCHION;§ «ue 0) oe ta ot te RO ee

CHAPTER II.
Sieep in Generals 6+ 5<. Pst td tate Me tu Be

CHAPTER III.
MSCOMIT, odes. «+ 5b geiees Busty tla 7 eh eee

CHAPTER IV.
Prophetic Power of Dreains,....: .«, ... </ed.) So

CHAPTER V.
DUIS HE MEARS. |g: os uae eC Seni we ee ee ee

CHAPTER VI.
Day Mare, 6g 1s eee ap ve wp a6 ee OR

CHAPTER VII.
sleep. Walking, 16 a +5 ns Se te te tata §.) Cae

CHAPTER VIII.
micepe Darkingy: 140: viene he aias car wordt a yQle

Xi

CHAPTER IX.
Sleeplessness,

CHAPTER X.
Drowsiness,

CHAPTER XI.

Protracted Sleep,

CHAPTER XII.
Sleep from Cold,

CHAPTER XIII.

Trance,

CHAPTER XIV.

Voluntary Waking Dreams, .

CHAPTER XV.
Spectral Illusions,

CHAPTER XVI.
Reverie,

CHAPTER XVII.

Abstraction,

CHAPTER XVIII.

Sleep of Plants, .

CHAPTER XIX.

General Management of Sleep,

PAGE

193

204

208

. 215

224

241

276

284

298

303

CHAPTER I.

———

INTRODUCTION.

SLEEP is the intermediate state between wakeful-
ness and death : wakefulness being regarded as the
active state of all the animal and intellectual fune-
tions, and death as that of their total suspension.
Sleep exists in two states; in the complete and
incomplete. The former is characterized by a tor-
por of the various organs which compose the brain,
and by that of the external senses and voluntary
motion. Incomplete sleep, or dreaming, is the
active state of one or more of the cerebral organs,
while the remainder are in repose: the senses and
the volition being either suspended or in action
according to the circumstances of the case. Com-

plete sleep is a temporary metaphysical death,
B

2

ted

though not an organic one—the heart and lungs
performing their offices with their accustomed regu-
larity under the control of the involuntary muscles.

Sleep is variously modified, as we shall fully
explain hereafter, by health and disease. The sleep
of health is fuil of tranquillity. In such a state we
remain for hours at a time in unbroken repose,
nature banqueting on its sweets, renewing its lost
energies, and laying in a fresh store for the suc-
ceeding day. This accomplished, slumber vanishes
like a vapour before the rising sun; languor has
been succeeded by strength; and all the faculties,
mental and corporeal, are recruited. In this de-
lightful state, man assimilates most with that in
which Adam sprang from his Creator’s hands, fresh,
buoyant, and vigorous ; rejoicing as a racer to run
his course, with all his appetencies of enjoyment
on edge, and all his feelings and faculties prepared
for exertion.

Reverse the picture, and we have the sleep of
disease. It is short, feverish, and unrefreshing,
disturbed by frightful or melancholy dreams. The
pulse is agitated, and, from nervous excitation, there
are frequent startings and twitchings of the muscles.
Night-mare presses like an incarnation of misery

upon the frame—-imagination, distempered by its

3

connexion with physical disorder, ranging along
the gloomy confines of terror, holding communica-
tion with hell and the grave, and throwing a dis-
colouring shade over human life.

Night is the time for sleep; and assuredly the
hush of darkness as naturally courts to repose as
meridian splendour flashes on us the necessity of
our being up at our labour. In fact, there exists a
strange, but certain sympathy between the periods
of day and night, and the performance of particular
functions during these periods. That this is not
the mere effect of custom, might be readily demon-
strated. All nature awakes with the rising sun.
The birds begin to sing; the bees to fly about with
murmurous delight. The flowers which shut under
the embrace of darkness, unfold themselves to the
light. The cattle arise to crop the dewy herbage;
and ‘man goeth forth to his labour until the even-
ing.” At close of day, the reverse of all this ac-
tivity and motion is observed. he songs of the
woodland choir, one after another, become hushed,
till at length twilight is left to silence, with her
own star and her fallmg dews. Action is succeeded
by listlessness, energy by languor, the desire of
exertion by the inclination for repose. Sleep,

which shuns the, light, embraces darkness, and

4

they lie down together under the sceptre of mid-
night. |

From the position of man in society, toil or em-
ployment of some kind or other is an almost neces-
sary concomitant of his nature—being essential to
healthy sleep, and consequently to the renovation
of our bodily organs and mental faculties. But as
no general rule can be laid down as to the quality
and quantity of labour best adapted to particular
temperaments, so neither can it be positively said
how many bours of sleep are necessary for the animal
frame. When the body is in a state of increase, as
in the advance from infancy to boyhood, so much
sleep is required, that the greater portion of exist-
ence may be fairly stated to be absorbed in this way.
It is not mere repose from action that is capable of
recruiting the wasted powers, or restoring the ner-
vous energy. Along with this is required that
oblivion of feeling and imagination which is essential
to, and which in a great measure constitutes, sleep.
But if in mature years the body is adding to its
bulk by the accumulation of adipose matter, a
greater tendency to somnolency occurs than when
the powers of the absorbents and exhalents are so
balanced as to prevent such accession of bulk. It

is during the complete equipoise of these animal

5
functions that health is enjoyed in greatest perfec-
tion; for such a state presupposes exercise, tem-
perance, and a tone of the stomach quite equal to
the process of digestion.

Sleep and stupor have been frequently treated
of by physiological writers as if the two states were
synonymous. Thisis not the case. In both there is
insensibility; but it is easy to awake the person from
sleep, and difficult, if not impossible, to arouse
him from stupor. The former is a necessary law
of the animal economy ; the latter is the result of
diseased action.

Birth and death are the Alpha and Omega of
existence; and life, to use the language of Shak-
speare, “is rounded by a sleep.”

When we contemplate the human frame in a state
of vigour, an impression is made on the mind that it
is calculated to last for ever. One set of organs is
laying down particles, and another taking them up
with such exquisite nicety, that for the continual
momentary waste there is continual momentary
repair; and this is capable of going on with the
strictest equality for half a century.

What is life? Those bodies are called living in
which an appropriation of foreign matter is going

on; death is where this process is at an end. When

6
we find blood in motion, the process of appropriation
is going on. Thecirculation is the surest sign of life.
Muscles retain irritability for an hour or two after
circulation ceases, but irritability is not life. Death
is owing to the absence of this process of appro-
priation.

Bichat has divided life into two varieties, the or-
ganic and the animal. The first is common to both
vegetables and animals, the last is peculiar to ani-
mals alone. Organic life applies to the functions
which nourish and sustain the object—animal life
to those which make it a sentient being; which give
it thought, feeling, and motion, and bring it into
communication with the surrounding world. The
processes of assimilation and excretion exist both
in animals and vegetables: the other vital processes
are restricted solely to animals. The digestive
organs, the kidneys, the heart, and the lungs, are
the apparatus which carry into effect the organic
life of animals. Those which manifest animal life
are the brain, the organs of the senses, and the
voluntary powers. Sleep is the suspension of animal
life; and during its continuance the creature is under
the influence of organic life alone.

Notwithstanding the renovating influence ofsleep,

which apparently brings up the lost vigour of the

7
frame to a particular standard, there is a power in
animal life which leads it almost imperceptibly on
from infancy to second childhood, or that of old age.
This power sleep, however healthy, is incapable of
counteracting. The skin wrinkles, and every-where
shows marks of the ploughshare of Saturn ; the adi-
pose structure dissolves; the bones become brittle ;
the teeth decay or drop out; the eye loses its
exquisite sensibility to sight; the ear to sound ;
and the hair is bleached to whiteness. These are
accompanied with a general decay of the intel-
lectual faculties; there is a loss of memory, and less
sensibility to emotion ; the iris hues of fancy subside
to twilight ; and the sphere of thought and action is
narrowed. The principle of decay is implanted in our
nature, and cannot be counteracted. Few people,
however, die of mere decay, for death is generally
accelerated by disease. From sleep we awake to
exertion-—from death not at all, at least on this side
of time. Methuselah in ancient, and Thomas Parr in
modern times ate well, digested well, and slept well;
but at length they each died. Death is omnivorous.
The worm which crawls on the highway and the
monarch on his couch of state, are alike subjected
to the same stern and inexorable law; they alike

become the victims of the universal tyrant.

CHAPTER II.

SLEEP IN GENERAL.

Every animal passes some portion of its time in
sleep. This is arule to which there is no ex-
ception ; although the kind of slumber and the
degree of profoundness in which it exists in the dif-
ferent classes are extremely various. Some phy-
siologists lay it down as a general rule, that the
larger the brain of an animal the greater is the
necessity for a considerable proportion of sleep.
This, however, I suspect is not borne out by facts.
Man, for instance, and some birds, such as the
sparrow, have the largest brains in proportion to
their size, and yet it is probable that they do not
sleep so much as some other animals with much

smaller brains. The serpent tribe, unless when

9

stimulated by hunger, (in which case they will
remain awake for days at a time waiting for their
prey,) sleep much more than men or birds, and yet
their brains are, proportionally, greatly inferior in
size: the boa, after dining on a stag or goat, will
continue in profound sleep for several days. Fishes,*
indeed, whose brains are small, require little sleep ;
but the same remark applies to birds,+ which have
large brains, and whose slumber is neither profound
nor of long continuance. The assertion, therefore,
that the quantum of sleep has any reference to the
size of the brain may be safely looked upon as un-
founded. ‘That it has reference to the quality of the

brain is more likely, for we find that carnivorous

* As a proof that fishes sleep, Aristotle, who seems to have
paid more attention to their habits than any modern author,
states, that while in this condition they remain motionless, with
the exception of a gentle movement of the tail—that they may
then be readily taken by the hand, and that, if suddenly touched,
they instantly start. The tunny, he adds, are surprised and
surrounded by nets while asleep, which is known by their
showing the white of their eyes. oat

+ The sleep of. some birds is amazingly light. Such is the ’
case with the goese, whichis disturbed by the slightest noise, and
more useful than any watvh-dog for giving warning of danger.
it was the cackling of the sacred geese that saved the capitol
-of Rome from the soldiers of Brennus, when the watch-dogs
failed to discover the approach of the enemy.

BQ

10

animals sleep more than such as are herbivorous ; and
it is probable that the texture, as well as form, of the
brains of these two classes is materially different.
This remark, with regard to the causes of the vari-
ous proportions of sleep required by the carni-
vyorous and herbivorous tribes, I throw out not
as a matter of certainty, but merely as a surmise
which seems to have considerable foundation in
truth.

In proportion as man exceeds all other animals in
the excellency of his physical organization, and in
intellectual capability, we shall find that in him the
various phenomena of sleep are exhibited in greater
regularity aud perfection. Sleep seems more indis-
pensably requisite to man than to any other crea-
ture, if there can be supposed to exist any differ-
ence where its indispensability is universal, and where
every animal must, in some degree or other, par-
take of it; but, as regards man, it is certain that
he sustains any violation of the law ordaining regular
periods of repose with less indifference than the
lower grades of creation—that a certain proportion
of sleep is more essential to his existence than theirs
——that he has less power of enduring protracted
wakefulness, or continuing in protracted sleep—

and that he is more refreshed by repose and more

ii

exhausted by the want of it than they. The sleep
of man, therefore, becomes a subject of deeper inter-
est and curiosity than that of any other animal,
both on account of the more diversified manner in
which it displays itself, and the superior opportu-
nity which exists of ascertaining the various phe-
nomena, which in the inferior animals can only be
conjectured or darkly guessed at.

Sleep, being a natural process, takes place in
general without any very apparent cause. It be-
comes, as it were, a habit, into which we insensibly
fall at stated periods, as we fall into other natural or
acquired habits. But it differs from the latter in
this, that it cannot in any case be entirely dispensed
with, although by custom we may bring ourselves to
do with a much smaller portion than we are usually
in the practice of indulging in. In this respect it
bears a strong analogy to the appetite for food or
drink. It has a natural tendency to recur every
twenty-four hours, and the periods of its accession
coincide with the return of night.

But though sleep becomes a habit into which we
would naturally drop without any obvious, or very
easily discovered cause, still we can often trace the
origin of our slumbers; and we are all acquainted

with many circumstances which either produce or

12
heighten them. I shall mention a few of these
causes.

Heat has a strong tendency to produce sleep. We
often witness this in the summer season, sometimes
in the open air, but more frequently at home, and,
above all, in a crowded meeting. In the latter case,
the soporific tendency is greatly increased by the
impurity of the air. A vitiated atmosphere is
strongly narcotic, and, when combined with heat
and monotony, is apt to induce slumber, not less
remarkable for the rapidity of its accession than its
overpowering character. In such a situation, the
mind in a few minutes ceases to act, and sinks
into a state of overpowering oblivion. The slum-
ber, however, not being a natural one, and sel-
dom occurring at the usual period, is generally short:
it rarely exceeds an hour; and when the person
awakes from it, so far from being refreshed, he is
usually dull, thirsty, and feverish, and finds more
than common difficulty in getting his mental powers
into their usual state of activity.

A heated church and a dull sermon are almost
sure to provoke sleep. There are few men whose
powers are equal to the task of opposing the joint
operation of two such potent influences. They act

on the spirit like narcotics, and the person seems as

18

if involved in a cloud of aconite or belladonna. The
heat of the church might be resisted, but the sermon
is irresistible. Its monotony falls in leaden accents
upon the ear, and soon subdues the most powerful
attention. Variety, whether of sight or sound,
prevents sleep, while monotony of all kinds is apt
to induce it. The murmuring of a river, the sound
of the Kolian harp, the echo of a distant cascade,
the ticking of a clock, the hum of bees under a
burning sun, and the pealing of a remote bell, all
exercise the same influence. So conscious was
Boerhaave of the power of monotony, that in
order to procure sleep for a patient, he directed
water to be placed in such a situation as to drop
continually on a brass pan. When there is no ex-
citement, sleep is sure to follow. We are all kept
awake by some mental or bodily stimulus, and when
that is removed our wakefulness is at an end. Want
of stimulus, especially in a heated atmosphere, pro-
duces powerful effects ; bat where sufficient stimulus
exists, we overcome the effects of the heat, and keep
awake in spite of it. Thus, in a crowded church,
where a dull, inanimate preacher would throw the
congregation into a deep slumber, such a man as
Massilon, or Chalmers, would keep them in a state

of keen excitement. He would arrest their atten-

14

tion, and counteract whatever tendency to sleep
would otherwise have existed. In like manner, a
prosing monotonous, long-winded acquaintance is
apt to make us doze, while another of a lively, en-
ergetic conversation keeps us brisk and awake. It
will generally be found that the reasoning faculties
are those which are soonest prostrated by slumber,
and the imaginative the least so. A person would
more readily fall asleep if listening to a profound
piece of argumentation, than to a humorous or fan-
ciful story; and probably more have slumbered over
the pages of Bacon and Locke, than over those of
Shakspeare and Milton.

Cold produces sleep as well as heat, but to do so
a very low temperature is necessary, particularly
with regard to the human race; for, when cold is
not excessive, it prevents instead of occasioning
slumber: in illustration of which, I may mention
the case of several unfortunate women, who lived
thirty-four days in a small room overwhelmed with
the snow, and who scarcely slept during the whole
of that period. In very northern and southern
latitudes, persons often lose their lives by lying
down in a state of drowsiness occasioned by intense
cold. The winter sleep or hybernation of animals

arises from cold; but as this species of slumber is

15

of a very peculiar description, I have discussed it
separately in another part of the work.

The finished gratification of all ardent desires
has the effect of inducing slumber: hence, after any
keen excitement, the mind becomes exhausted, and
speedily relapses into this state. Attention to a
single sensation has the same effect. This has been
exemplified in the case of all kinds of monotony,
where there is a want of variety to stimulate the
ideas, and keep them on the alert. “Ifthe mind,”
says Cullen, “is attached to a single sensation, it
is brought very nearly to the state of the total
absence of impression ;” or, in other words, to the
state most closely bordering upon sleep. Remove
those stimuli which keep it employed, and sleep
ensues at any time.

Any thing which mechanically determines the
blood to the brain, acts in a similar manner, such as
whirling round for a great length of time, ascending
a lofty mountain, or swinging to and fro. The first
and last of these actions give rise to much giddi-
ness, followed by intense slumber, and at last by
death, if they be continued very long. By lying flat
upon a millstone while performing its evolutions,

sleep is soon produced, and death, without pain,

16

would be the result, if the experiment were greatly
protracted. Apoplexy, which consists of a turgid
state of the cerebral vessels, produces perhaps
the most complete sleep that is known, in so
far that, while it continues, it is utterly impossible
to waken the individual: no stimulus, however
powerful, has any influence in arousing his dormant
faculties. When the circulating mass in the brain
is diminished beyond a certain extent, it has the
same effect on the opposite state ; whence excessive
loss of blood excites sleep.

Opium, hyoscyamus, aconite, belladonna, and the
whole tribe of narcotics, induce sleep, partly by
a specific power which they exert on the nerves
of the stomach, and partly by inducing an apo-
plectic state of the brain. The former effect is
occasioned by a moderate—the latter by an over
dose. |

A heavy meal, especially if the stomach is at the
same time weak, is apt to induce sleep. In ordi-
nary circumstances, the nervous energy or sensorial
power of this viscus is sufficient to carry on its
functions, but when an excess of food is thrown
upon it, it is then unable to furnish, from its own

resources, the powers requisite for digestion. In

17

such a case it draws upon the whole body—upon
the chest, the limbs, &c., from whence it is sup-
plied with the sensorial power of which it is defi-
cient; and is thus enabled to perform that which
by its own unassisted means it never could have
accomplished. But mark the consequences of such
accommodation! Those parts, by communicating
vigour to the stomach, become themselves debili-
tated in a corresponding ratio, and get into a state
analogous to that from which they had extricated
this viscus. The extremities become cold, the re-
spiration heavy and stertorous, and the brain torpid,
In consequence of the torpor of the brain, sleep
ensues. It had parted with that portion of sensorial
energy which kept it awake, and by supplying
another organ is itself thrown into the state of
sleep. It is a curious fact, that the feeling of sleep
is most strong while the food remains on the sto-
mach, shortly after the accession of the digestive
process, and before that operation which converts
the nourishment into chyle has taken place.

When, therefore, the sensorial power is suffi-
ciently exhausted, we naturally fall asleep. As this
exhaustion, however, is a gradual process, so is that
of slumber. Previous to its accession, a feeling of

universal lassitude prevails, and exhibits itself in

18

yawning,* peevishness, heaviness, and weakness of
the eyes; indifference to surrounding objects, and
all the characteristics of fatigue. Ifthe person be
seated, his head nods and droops: the muscles be-
come relaxed ; and, when circumstances admit of it,
the limbs are thrown into the recumbent position,
or that most favourable for complete inaction. The
senses then become unconscious of impressions, and,
one after the other, part with sensation; the sight
first, then taste, smell, hearing, and touch, all in
regular order. The brain does not all at once
glide into repose: its different organs being succes-
sively thrown into this state; one dropping asleep,
then another, then a third, till the whole are locked
up in the fetters of slumber. This gradual process

of intellectual obliteration is a sort of confused

* We yawn before falling asleep and when we wake; yawn-
ing, therefore, precedes and follows sleep. It seems an effort
of nature to restore the just equilibrium between the flexor and
extensor muscles. The former have a natural predominancy in
the system ; and on their being fatigued, we, by an effort of the
will, or rather by a species of instinct, put the latter into action
for the purpose of redressing the balance, and poising the re-
spective muscular powers. We do the same thing on awaking,
or even on getting up from a recumbent posture—the flexors in
such circumstances having prevailed over the extensors, which
were in a great measure inert.

19

dream—a mild delirium which always precedes
sleep. The ideas have no resting-place, but float
about in the confused tabernacle of the mind, giving
rise to images of the most perplexing description.
In this state they continue for some time, until,
as sleep becomes more profound, the brain is left
to thorough repose, and they disappear altogether.
Sleep produces other important changes in the
system. The rapidity of the circulation is dimin-
ished, and, as a natural consequence, that of respi-
ration: the force of neither function, however, is im-
paired; but, on the contrary, rather increased.
Vascular action is diminished in the brain and organs
of volition, while digestion and absorption all pro-
ceed with increased energy. The truth of most of
these propositions it is not difficult to establish.
The diminished quickness of the circulation is |
shown in the pulse, which is slower and fuller than
in the waking state; that of respiration in the more
deliberate breathing which accompanies sleep. Di-
minished action of the brain is evident from the
abolition of its functions, as well as direct evidence.
A case is related by Blumenbach, of a person who had
been trepanned, and whose brain was observed to
sink when he was asleep, and swell out when he was

awake. As for the lessened vascular action in the

20

voluntary powers, this is rendered obvious by the
lower temperature on the surface which takes place
during the slumbering state. Moreover, in low
typhus, cynanche maligna, and other affections
attended with a putrid diathesis, the petechie
usually appear during sleep when the general cir-
culation is least vigorous, while the paroxysms of
reaction or delirium take place, for the most part, in
the morning when it is in greater strength and
activity. ;

Insome individuals the stronger and more laborious
respiration of sleep is made manifest by that ster-
torous sound commonly denominated snoring. Stout
apoplectic people—those who snuff much or sleep
with their mouths open, are most given to this
habit. It seems to arise principally from the force
with which the air is drawn into the lungs in sleep.
The respiratory muscles being less easily excited
during this state do not act so readily, and the air
is consequently admitted into the chest with some
degree of effort. This, combined with the relaxed
state of the fauces, gives rise to the stertorous noise.
Snuffing, by obstructing the nasal passages and
thus rendering breathing more difficult, has the
same effect; consequently snuffers are very often

great snorers. The less rapidly the blood is pro

21

pelled through the lungs, the slower is the respira-
tion, and the louder the stertor becomes. Apoplexy,
by impairing the sensibility of the respiratory or-
gans, and thus reducing the frequency of breathing,
produces snoring to a great extent; and all cerebral
congestions have, to a greater or lesser degree, the
same effect.

That sleep increases absorption is shown in the
disappearance or diminution of many swellings,
especially oedema of the extremities, which often
disappears in the night and recurs in the daytime,
even when the patient keeps his bed, a proof that
its disappearance does not always depend on the
position of the body: that it increases digestion,
and, as a natural consequence, nutrition is rendered
probable by many circumstances: hence it is the
period in which the regeneration of the body chiefly
takes place. Were there even no augmentation given
to the assimilative function, as is maintained by
Broussais andsome other physiologists, it is clear that
the body would be more thoroughly nourished than
when awake, for all those actions which exhaust it
in the latter condition are quiescent, and it remains
in a state of rest, silently accumulating power with-
out expending any.

Sleep lessens all the secretions, with one excep-

22

tion—that of the skin. The urinary, salivary, and
bronchial discharges, the secretions from the nose,
eyes, and ears, are all formed less copiously than in
the waking state. The same rule holds with regard
to other secretions—hence diarrheea, menorrhagia,
&e., are checked during the intervals of slumber.

From the diminished vascular action gomg on
upon the surface we would be apt to expect a
decrease of perspiration, but the reverse is the case.
Sleep relaxes the cutaneous vessels, and they secrete
more copiously than in the waking state. Accord-
ing to Sanctorius, a person sleeping some hvurs
undisturbed will perspire insensibly twice as much
as one awake. This tendency of sleep to produce
perspiration is strikingly exhibited in diseases of
debility; whence the nocturnal sweats so prevailing
and so destructive in all cachectic affections. Sanc-
torius farther states, that the insensible perspira-
tion is not only more abundant, but less acrimo-
nious during sleep than in the waking state ; that, if
diminished during the day, the succeeding sleep is
disturbed and broken, and that the diminution in
consequence of too short a sleep, disposes to fever,
unless the equilibrium is established on the follow-
ing day by a more copious perspiration.

Sleep produces peculiar effects upon the organs

23

of vision. A priori, we might expect that, during
this state, the pupil would be largely dilated in con-
sequence of the light being shut out. On opening
the eyelids cautiously it is seen to be contracted ;
it then quivers with an irregular motion as if dis-
posed to dilate, but at length ceases to move, and
remains in a contracted state till the person awakes.
This fact I have often verified by inspecting the
eyes of children. Sleep also communicates to these
organs a great accession of sensibility, so much so,
that they are extremely dazzled by a clear light.
This, it is true, happens on coming out of a dark
into a light room, or opening our eyes upon the
sunshine even when we are awake, but the effect is
much stronger when we have previously been in
deep slumber.

Sleep may be natural or diseased—the former
arising from such causes as exhaust the sensorial
power, such as fatigue, pain, or protracted anxiety
of mind; the latter from cerebral congestion, such as
apoplexy, or plethora. The great distinction be-
tween these varieties is, that the one can be broken
by moderate stimuli, while the other requires either
excessive stimuli or the removal of the particular
cause which gave rise to it.

During complete sleep no sensation whatever is

24

experienced by the individual : he neither feels pain,
hunger, thirst, nor the ordinary desires of nature. He
may be awakened to a sense of such feelings, but
during perfect repose he has no consciousness what-
ever of their existence—if they can indeed be said
to exist where they are not felt. For the same
reason, we may touch him without his feeling it;
neither is he sensible to sounds, to light, or to odours.
When, however, the slumber is not very profound,
he may hear music or conversation, and have a sense
of pain, hunger, and thirst; and, although not
awakened by such circumstances, may recollect them
afterwards. These impressions, caught by the
senses often give rise to the most extraordinary
mental combinations, and form the groundwork of
the most elaborate dreams.

I am of opinion that we rarely pass the whole of
any one night in a state of perfect slumber. My
reason for this supposition is, that we very seldom
remain during the whole of that period in the posi-
tion in which we fall asleep. This change of pos-
ture must have been occasioned by some emotion,
however obscure, affecting the mind, and through
it the organs of volition, whereas in complete sleep
we experience no emotion whatever.

The position usually assumed in sleep has been

25

mentioned ; but sleep may ensue in any posture of
the body; persons fall asleep on horseback, and
continue riding in this state for a long time without
being awakened. Horses sometimes sleep for hours
in the standing posture; and the circumstance of
somnambulism shows that the same thing may occur
in the human race.

Some animals, such as the hare, sleep with their
eyes open; and I have known similar instances in
the human subject. But the organ is dead to the
ordinary stimulus of light, and sees no more than if
completely shut.

Animals which prey by night, such as the cat,
hyena, &c., pass the greater part of their time in sleep;
while those that do not, continue longer awake than
asleep. The latter slumber part of the night and
continue awake so long as the sun continues above
the horizon. The propensity of the former to sleep
in the daytime seems to proceed from the structure
of their eyes; as they see much better in darkness
than in light, and consequently pass in slumber that
period in which their vision is of least avail to them.
It is a very curious fact, however, that these ani-
mals, when kept in captivity, reverse the order of
their nature, and remain awake by day while they

sleep by night. This fact has been ascertained in the
c

26
menagerie at Paris. In such cases I apprehend that
some corresponding change must take place in the
structure of the eyes, assimilating them to those
of animals which naturally sleep by night.

M. Castel observes,* that the greater part of ani-
mals sleep longer in winter than in summer. It is
precisely on account of perspiration that in the first
of these seasons sleep is more necessary than in the
second. In winter, the want of perspiration during
day is furnished in sleep; in summer, the diurnal
sweat supplies that of the night, and renders much
sleep less necessary. In other words, during sum-
mer the perspiration is so much excited by atmo-
spheric temperature, that a shorter time is sufficient
to give issue to the fluids which have to be expelled
by this means. For the same reason, the inhabi-
tants of very cold climates sleep more than those
who live in the warmer latitudes.

The profoundness of sleep differs greatly in dif-
ferent individuals. The repose of some is extremely
deep ; that of others quite the reverse. One will
scarcely obey the roar of a cannon; another will
start at the chirping of a cricket or the faintest
dazzling of the moonbeams. Heavy-minded, phleg-

* « Journal Complementaire.”

2%

matic people generally belong to the former class ;
the irritable, the nervous, and the hypochondriac to
the latter, although we shall at times find the cases
reversed with regard to the nature of sleep enjoyed
by these different temperaments. Man is almost
the only animal in whom much variety is to be found
in this respect. The lower grades are distinguished
by a certain character, so far as their slumber is
concerned, and this character runs through the
whole race: thus, all hares, cats, &c., are light
sleepers; all bears, turtles, badgers, &c., are the
reverse. In man, the varieties are infinite. Much
of this depends upon the age and temperament of
the individual, and much upon custom.

The profoundness of sleep differs also during the
same night. For the first four or five hours, the
slumber is much heavier than towards morning.
The cause of such difference is obvious; for we go
to bed exhausted by previous fatigue, and conse-
quently enjoy sound repose, but, in the course of a
few hours, the necessity for this gradually abates,
and the slumber naturally becomes lighter.

That sleep from which we are easily roused is the
healthiest : very profound slumber partakes of the
nature of apoplexy.

On being suddenly awakened from a profound

28

sleep our ideas are exceedingly confused ; and it is
some time before we can be made to comprehend
what is said to us. For some moments, we neither
see, nor hear, nor think with our usual distinctness,
and are, in fact, in a state of temporary reverie.

When there is a necessity for our getting up at
a certain hour, the anxiety of mind thus produced
not only prevents the sleep from being very pro-
found, but retards its accession; and even after it
does take place, we very seldom oversleep ourselves,
and are almost sure to be awake at, or before, the
stipulated time. .

Shortly after falling asleep, we often awake with
a sudden start, having the mind filled with painful
impressions ; although we often find it impossible to
say to what subject they refer. Some persons do this
regularly every night, and there can be no doubt
that it proceeds from the mind being tortured by
some distressing vision ; which, however, has faded
away without leaving behind it any feeling, save
one of undefinable melancholy. There are some
persons who are sure to be aroused in this startling
and painful manner if they happen to fall asleep in
the position in which they at first lay down, who
nevertheless escape if they turn themselves once or

twice before falling into repose. This fact we

20

must take as we find it: any explanation as to its
proximate cause seems quite impracticable.

Disease exercises a powerful influence upon sleep.
All affections attended with acute pain prevent it,
in consequence of the undue accumulation which
they occasion of sensorial power. This is especially
the case where there is much active determination
of blood to the head, as in phrenetic affections, and
fevers in general.

Sleep is always much disturbed in hydrothorax ;
and almost every disease affects it, more or less;
some preventing it altogether, some limiting the
natural proportion, some inducing fearful dreams,
and all acting with a power proportioned to the
direct or indirect influence which they exercise
upon the sensorium.

From the increased irritability of the frame and
relaxed state of the cutaneous vessels during sleep,
the system at that time is peculiarly apt to be acted
upon by all impressions, especially of cold; and
those who fall asleep exposed to a current of air are
far more apt to feel the consequences thereof than
if they were broad awake. By a law of nature the
sensibility of the system is increased by any suspen-
sion of the mental or voluntary powers, for the same

reason that it is diminished, while these powers

30

resume their action. In drunkenness, for instance,
where the mind is vehemently excited, we are far
less susceptible of cold than in a state of sobriety.
Sleep is much modified by habit. Thus, an old
artillery-man often enjoys tranquil repose, while the
cannon are thundering around him; an engineer has
been known to fall asleep within a boiler, while his
fellows were beating it on the outside with their
ponderous hammers; and the repose of a miller is
nowise incommoded by the noise of his. mill.
Sound ceases to be a stimulus to such men, and
what would have proved an inexpressible annoyance
to others, is by them altogether unheeded. It is
common for carriers to sleep on horseback, and
coachmen on their coaches. During the battle of
the Nile, some boys were so exhausted, that they
fell asleep on the deck amid the deafening thunder
of that dreadful engagement. Nay, silence itself
may become a stimulus, while sound ceases to be so.
Thus, a miller being very ill, his mill was stopped
that he might not be disturbed by its noise; but this,
so far from inducing sleep, prevented it altogether ;
and it did not take place till the mill was set a-going
again. For the same reason, the manager of some
vast iron-works, who slept close to them amid the

incessant din of hammers, forges, and blast furnaces,

31

would awake if there was any cessation of the noise
during the night. To carry the illustration still
farther, it has been noticed, that a person who
falls asleep near a church, the bell of which is
ringing, may hear the sound during the whole
of his slumber, and be nevertheless aroused by
its sudden cessation. Here the sleep must have
been imperfect, otherwise he would have been in-
sensible to the sound: the noise of the bell was
no stimulus; it was its cessation which, by break-
ing the monotony, became so, and caused the
sleeper to awake.

The effects of habit may be illustrated in various
ways. ‘Ifa person, for instance, is accustomed to
go to rest exactly at nine o’clock in the evening, and
to rise again at six in the morning, though the time
of going to sleep be occasionally protracted till
twelve, he will yet awake at his usual hour of six;
or, if his sleep be continued by darkness, quietude,
or other causes, till the day be farther advanced,
the desire of sleep will return in the evening at
nine.” |

Persons who are much in the habit of having
their repose broken, seldom sleep either long or

profoundly, however much they may be left undis-

32

turbed. This is shown in the cases of soldiers and
seamen, nurses, mothers, and keepers.

Seamen and soldiers on duty can, from habit, sleep
when they will, and wake when they will. The
Emperor Napoleon was a striking instance of this
fact. Captain Barclay, when performing his extra-
ordinary feat of walking a mile an hour for athou-
sand successive hours, obtained at last such a mas-
tery over himself, that he fell asleep the instant he
lay down. Some persons cannot sleep from home,
or on a different bed from their usual one: some
cannot sleep on a hard, others on a soft bed. A
low pillow prevents sleep in some, a high one in
others. The faculty of remaining asleep for a great
length of time, is possessed by some individuals.
Such was the case with Quin, the celebrated player,
who could slumber for twenty-four hours succes-
sively—with Elizabeth Orvin, who spent three-
fourths of her life in sleep—with Elizabeth Per-
kins, who slept for a week or a fortnight at a time
—with Mary Lyall, who did the same for six suc-
cessive weeks—and with many others, more or
less remarkable. In Bowyer’s life of Beattie, a
curious anecdote is related of Dr. Reid, viz., that

he could take as much food and immediately after-

33

wards as much sleep as were sufficient for two
days.

A phenomenon of an opposite character is also
sometimes observed, for there are individuals who
can subsist upon a surprisingly small portion of
sleep. The celebrated General Elliot was an in-
stance of this kind: he never slept more than four
hours out of the twenty-four. In all other respects
he was strikingly abstinent; his food consisting
wholly of bread, water, and vegetables. In a letter
communicated to Sir John Sinclair, by John Gor-
don, Esq. of Swiney, Caithness, mention is made of
a person, named James Mackay, of Skerray, who
died in Strathnaver in the year 1797, aged ninety-
one: he only slept, on an average, four hours in the
twenty-four, and was a remarkably robust and
healthy man. Frederick the Great, of Prussia, and
the illustrious surgeon, John Hunter, only slept five
hours in the same period; and the sleep of the
active-minded is always much less than that of the
listless and indolent. The celebrated French General
Pichegru informed Sir Gilbert Blane, that during
a whole year’s campaigns, he had not above one
hour’s sleep in the twenty-four. I know a lady
who never sleeps above half an hour at a time, and
the whole period of whose sleep does not exceed

C2

34

three or four hours in the twenty-four; and yet she
is in the enjoyment of excellent health. Gooch
gives an instance of a man, who slept only for
fifteen minutes out of the twenty-four hours, and
even this was only a kind of dozing, and not a per-
fect sleep: notwithstanding which, he enjoyed good
health, and reached his seventy-third year. I
strongly suspect there must be some mistake in this
case, for it is not conceivable that human nature
could subsist upon such a limited portion of repose.
Instances have been related of persons who never
slept; but these must be regarded as purely fabulous.

The period of life modifies sleep materially.
When a man is about his grand climacteric, or a few
years beyond it, he slumbers less than at any former
period of life; but very young children always
sleep away the most of their time. At this early
period, the nerves being extremely sensitive and
unaccustomed to impressions, become easily fatigued.
As the children get older, the brain, besides becom-
ing habituated to impressions, acquires an ac-
cession of sensorial power, which tends to keep it
longer awake. For the first two or three years,
children sleep more than once in the twenty-four
hours. The state of the foetus has been denomi-

nated, by some writers, a continued sleep, but the

35
propriety of this definition may be doubted ; for the

mind having never yet manifested itself, and the
voluntary organs never having been exercised, can
hardly be said to exist in slumber, a condition which
supposes a previous waking state of the functions.
Middle-aged persons who lead an active life, seldom
sleep above eight or nine hours in the twenty-four,
however much longer they may lie in bed; while a
rich, lazy and gormandizing citizen will sleep
twelve or thirteen hours at a time.

Sleep is greatly modified in old people. They
usually slumber little, and not at all profoundly.
Sometimes, however, when they get into a state of
dotage, in consequence of extreme old age, the
phenomena of childhood once more appear, and they
pass the greater part of their time in sleep. The
repose of the aged is most apt to take place imme-
diately after taking food, while they often solicit it in
vain at that period at which, during the former years
of their lives, they had been accustomed to enjoy it.
The celebrated De Moivre slept twenty hours out
of the twenty-four, and Thomas Parr latterly slept
away by far the greater part of his existence.

Those who eat heartily, and have strong digestive
powers, usually sleep much. The great portion

of sleep required by infants is owing, in part, to

36

the prodigious activity of their digestive powers.
The majority of animals sleep after eating, and man
has a strong tendency to do the same thing, espe-
cially when oppressed with heat. In the summer
season, a strong inclination is often felt to sleep after
dinner, when the weather is very warm.

A heavy meal, which produces no uneasy feeling
while the person is awake, will often do so if he
fall asleep. According to Dr. Darwin, this pro-
ceeds from the sensorial actions being increased,
when the volition is suspended. The digestion
from this circumstance goes on with increased ra-
pidity. ‘‘ Heat is produced in the system faster than
it is expended ; and, operating on the sensitive ac-
tions, carries them beyond the limitations of pleasure, .
producing, as is common in such cases, increased
frequency of pulse.” In this case, incomplete sleep
is supposed, for, when the slumber is perfect, no
sensation whatever, either painful or the reverse,
can be experienced.

In recovering from long protracted illnesses, ac-
companied with great want of rest, we generally
sleep much—far more, indeed, than during the
most perfect health. This seems to be a provision
of nature for restoring the vigour which had been
lost during disease, and bringing back the body to

3”

its former state. So completely does this appear to
be the case, that as soon as a thorough restoration
to health takes place, the portion of sleep dimin-
ishes till it is brought to the standard at which it
originally stood before the accession of illness.

After continuing a certain time asleep, we awake,
stretch ourselves, open our eyes, rub them, and
yawn several times. At the moment of awaking,
there is some confusion of ideas, but this immedi-
ately wears away. The mental faculties from being
in utter torpor, begin to act one after the other; *
the senses do the same. At last, the mind, the
senses and the locomotion being completely re-
stored, what are our sensations? Instead of the
listlessness, lassitude, and general fatigue experi-
enced on lying down, we feel vigorous and refreshed.

The body is stronger, the thoughts clearer and

* « Tn the gradual progress from intense sleep, when there can
be no dream, tothe moment of perfect vigilance, see what oc-
curs. The first cerebral organ that awakes enters into the train
of thinking connected with its faculty; some kind of prEam is
the result; as organ after organ awakes, the dream becomes
more vivid; and as the number of active organs increases, so
does the complication of dreams; and if all the internal organs
are awake, the man is still asleep until his awakening senses
bring him into direct communication with the world.”

Carmichael’s Memoir of Spurzheim, p. 92.

38

more composed ; we think coolly, clearly, rationally,
and can often comprehend. with ease what baffled
us on the previous night.

One or two other points remain to be noticed.
On awaking, the eyes are painfully affected by the
light, but this shortly wears away, and we then feel
them stronger than when we went to bed. The
muscular power, also, for a few seconds, is affected.
We totter when we get up; and if we lay hold of
any thing, the hand lacks its wonted strength. This,
however, as the current of nervous energy is re-
stored throughout the muscles, immediately disap-
pears ; and we straightway possess redoubled vigour.
On examining the urine, we find that it is higher
in its colour than when we lay down. The saliva
is more viscid, the phlegm harder and tougher, the
eyes glutinous, and the nostrils dry. If we betake
ourselves to the scale, we find that our weight has
diminished in consequence of the nocturnal perspi-
rations; while, by subjecting our stature to measure-
ment, we shall see that we are taller by nearly an
inch than on the preceding night. This fact was
correctly ascertained in a great variety of instances
by Mr. Wasse, Rector of Aynho in Northumberland;
and is sufficiently accounted for by the interverte-

bral cartilages recovering their elasticity, in conse-

39

quence of the bodily weight being taken off them
during the recumbent posture of sleep.

Such are the leading phenomena of sleep. With
regard to the purposes which it serves in the eco-
nomy, these are too obvious to require much detail.
Its main object is to restore the strength expended
during wakefulness; to recruit the body by pro-
moting nutrition and giving rest to the muscles;
and to renovate the mind by the repose which it
affords the brain. Action is necessarily followed
by exhaustion ; sleep by checking the one restrains
the other, and keeps the animal machine in due
vigour. Mr. Carmichael supposes sleep to be the
period when assimilation goes on in the brain. In
this respect, I believe that the brain is not differ-
ently situated from the rest of the body. There,
as elsewhere, the assimilative process proceeds both
in the slumbering and in the waking state ; but that
it is only at work in the brain during sleep analogy
forbids us to admit. So long as circulation continues
a deposition of matter is going on; and circu-
lation, we all know, is at work in the brain as in
other organs, whether we be asleep or awake. Ac-
cording to Richerand, one of the great purposes
served by sleep, is to diminish the activity of the

circulation, which a state of wakefulness has the

40

invariable effect of increasing. “ The exciting
causes,” he observes, “to which our organs are
subject during the day, tend progressively to in-
erease their action. The throbbings of the heart, for
instance, are more frequent at night than in the
morning; and this action, gradually accelerated,
would soon be carried to such a degree of activity
as to be inconsistent with life, if its velocity were
not moderated at intervals by the recurrence of
sleep.” |

To detail the beneficent purposes served by
sleep in the cure of diseases, as well as in health,
would be a work of supererogation.. They are felt
and recognised by mankind as so indispensable to
strength, to happiness, and to life itself, that he
who dispenses with that portion of repose required
by the wants of nature, is in reality curtailing the

duration of his own existence.

CHAPTER III.

DREAMING,

{n perfect sleep, as we have elsewhere stated, there
is a quiescence of all the organs which compose the
brain ; but when, in consequence of some inward
excitement, one organ or more continues awake,
while the remainder are in repose, a state of incom-
plete sleep is the result, and we have the pheno-
mena of dreaming. If, for instance, any irritation,
such as pain, fever, drunkenness, or a heavy meal,
should throw the perceptive organs into a state of
action while the reflecting ones continue asleep, we
have a consciousness of objects, colours, or sounds
being presented to us, just as if the former or-
gans were actually stimulated by having such im-

pressions communicated to them by the external

A2

senses ;* while, in consequence of the repose of the
reflecting organs, we are unable to rectify the illu-
sions, and conceive that the scenes passing before us,
or the sounds that we hear, have a real existence.
This want of mutual co-operation between the differ-
ent organs of the brain accounts for the disjointed
nature, the absurdities, and incoherencies of dreams.

Many other doctrines have been started by
philosophers, but I am not aware of any which
can lay claim even to plausibility ; some, indeed,
are so chimerical, and so totally unsupported by
evidence, that it is difficult to conceive how they
ever entered into the imaginations of their founders.
Baxter, for instance, in his “ Treatise on the Im-
mortality of the Soul,” endeavours to show that
dreams are produced by the agency of some spirit-
ual beings, who either amuse, or employ themselves
seriously in engaging mankind in all those ima-
ginary transactions with which they are employed in
dreaming. The theory of Democritus and Lucre-
tius is equally whimsical. They accounted for
dreams by supposing that spectres, and simulacra
of corporeal things constantly emitted from them,

* This internal stimulation of particular organs without the

concurrence of outward impressions by the senses, is more fully
stated under the head of Spectral Illusions.

43

and fioating up and down in the air, come and
assault the soul in sleep. The most prevailing doc-
trine is that of the Cartesians, who supposed that
the mind was continually active in sleep; in other
words, that during this state we were always
dreaming. Hazlitt, in his “Round Table,” has
taken the same view of the subject, and alleges, that
if a person is awakened at any given time and
asked what he has been dreaming about, he will at
once be recalled to a train of associations with
which his mind had been busied previously. Un-
fortunately for this theory, it is not sustained by
facts ; experiments made on purpose having shown
that, though in some few instances, the individual
had such a consciousness of dreaming as is described,
yet in the great majority hehad no consciousness of
any thing of the kind. The doctrine, therefore, so
far as direct evidence is concerned, must fall to the
ground; and, yet unsupported as it is either by
proof or analogy, this is the fashionable hypothesis
of the schools, and the one most in vogue among
our best metaphysical writers.

There is a strong analogy between dreaming
and insanity. Dr. Abercrombie defines the differ-
ence between the two states to be, that in the latter

the erroneous impression, being permanent, affects

A4

the conduct; whereas in dreaming, no influence on
the conduct is produced, because the vision is dissi-
pated on awaking. This definition is nearly, but
not wholly correct ; for in somnambulism and sleep-
talking, the conduct is influenced by the prevailing
dream. Dr. Rush has, with great shrewdness,
remarked, that a dream may be considered as a
transient paroxysm of delirium, and delirium as a
permanent dream.

Man is not the only animal subject to dreaming.
We have every reason to believe that many of the
lower animals do the same. MHorses neigh and
rear, and dogs bark and growl in their sleep.
Probably, at such times, the remembrance of the
chase or the combat was passing through the
minds of these creatures; and they also not
unfrequently manifest signs of fear, joy, play-
fulness, and almost every other passion.* Rumi-
nating animals, such as the sheep and cow, dream
less; but even they are sometimes so affected,

especially at the period of rearing their young.

* «The stag-hounds, weary with the chase,
Lay stretched upon the rushy floor,
And urged in dreams the forest race
From Teviot-stone to Eskdale moor.”
Lay of the Last Minstrel.

A5

The parrot is said to dream, and I should suppose
some other birds do the same. Indeed, the more
intellectual the animal is, the more likely is it to be
subject to dreaming. Whether fishes dream it is
. impossible to conjecture: nor can it be guessed,
with any thing like certainty, at what point in the
scale of animal intellect, the capability of dreaming
ceases, although it is very certain there is such a
point. I apprehend that dreaming is a much more
general law than is commonly supposed, and that
many animals dream who are never suspected of
doing so.

Some men are said never to dream, and others
only when their health is disordered: Dr. Beattie
mentions a case of the latter description. For
many years before his death, Dr. Reid had no con-
sciousness of ever having dreamed ; and Mr. Locke
takes notice of a person who never did so till his
twenty-sixth year, when he began to dream in con-
sequence of having had a fever. It is not impossi-
ble, however, but that, in these cases, the individuals
may have had dreams from the same age as other
people, and under the same circumstances, although
probably they were of so vague a nature, as to have
soon faded away from the memory.

Dreams occur more frequently in the morning

A6

than in the early part of the night ; a proof that the
sleep is much more profound in the latter period
than in the former. Towards morning the faculties,
being refreshed by sleep, are more disposed to enter
into activity: and this explains why, as we approach
the hours of waking, our dreams are more fresh and
vivid. Owing to the comparatively active state of
the faculties, morning dreams are the more rational
—whence the old adage, that such dreams are true.

Children dream almost frOtn their birth ; and if
we may judge from what, on many occasions, they
endure during sleep, we must suppose that the
visions which haunt their young minds are often of
a very frightful kind. Children, from many causes,
are more apt to have dreams of terror than adults.
In the first place, they are peculiarly subject to
various diseases, such as teething, convulsions, and
bowel complaints, those fertile sources of mental
terror in sleep ; and, in the second place, their minds
are exceedingly susceptible of dread in all its forms,
and prone to be acted on by it, whatever shape it
assumes. Many of the dreams experienced at this
early period, leave an indelible impression upon the
mind. They are remembered in after-years with feel-
ings of pain; and, blending with the more delightful

reminiscences of childhood, demonstrate that this era,

47

which we are apt to consider one unvaried scene of
sunshine and happiness, had, as well as future
life, its shadows of melancholy, and was not un-
tinged with hues of sorrow and care. The sleep of
infancy, therefore, is far from being that ideal state
of felicity which is commonly supposed. It is
haunted with its own terrors, even more than that
of adults ; and, if many of the visions which people
it are equally delightful, there can be little doubt
that it is also tortured by dreams of a more painful
character than often fall to the share of after-life.

In health, when the mind is at ease, we seldom
dream ; and when we do so, our visions are generally
of a pleasing character. In disease, especially of the
brain, liver and stomach, dreams are both common
and of a very distressing kind.

Some writers imagine, that as we grow older, our
dreams become less absurd and inconsistent, but
this is extremely doubtful. Probably, as we advance
in life, we are less troubled with these phenomena
than at the period of youth, when imagination is full
of activity, and the mind peculiarly liable to impres-
sions of every kind; but when they do take place,
we shall find them equally preposterous, unphiloso-
phical and crude, with those which haunted our
early years. Old people dream more, however,

48

than the middle-aged, owing doubtless to the more
broken and disturbed nature of their repose.

I believe that dreams are uniformly the resuscita-
tion or re-embodiment of thoughts which have for-
merly, in some shape or other, occupied the mind.
They are old ideas revived either in an entire state,
or heterogeneously mingled together. I doubt if it
be possible for a person to have, in a dream, any
idea whose elements did not, in some form, strike
him at a previous period. If these break loose from
their connecting chain, and become jumbled together
incoherently, as is often the case, they give rise to
absurd combinations ; but the elements still subsist,
and only manifest themselves in a new and uncon-
nected shape. As this is an important point, and one
which has never been properly insisted upon, I shall
illustrate it by an example. I lately dreamed that I
walked upon the banks of the Great Canal in the
neighbourhood of Glasgow. On the side opposite to
that on which I was, and within a few feet of the
water, stood the splendid portico of the Royal
Exchange. A gentleman, whom I knew, was
standing upon one of the steps, and we spoke to
each other. I then lifted a large stone, and poised
itin my hand, when he said that he was certain

I could not throw it to a certain spot which he

49

pointed out. I made the attempt, and fell short of
the mark. At this moment, a well known friend
came up, whom I knew to excel at putting the
stone; but, strange to say, he had lost both his
legs, and walked upon wooden substitutes. This
struck me as exceedingly curious; for my impres-
sion was that he had only lost one leg, and had but
a single wooden one. At my desire he took up the
stone, and, without difficulty, threw it beyond the
point indicated by the gentleman upon the opposite
side of the canal. The absurdity of this dream is
extremely glaring; and yet, on strictly analyzing
it, I find it to be wholly composed of ideas, which
passed through my mind on the previous day, as-
suming a new and ridiculous arrangement. I can
compare it to nothing but to cross readings in the
newspapers, or to that well known amusement which
consists in putting a number of sentences, each written
on a separate piece of paper, into a hat, shaking the
whole, then taking them out one by one as they
come, and seeing what kind of medley the hetero-
geneous compound will make when thus fortui-
tously put together. For instance, I had, on the
above day, taken a walk to the canal along with a
friend. On returning from it, I pointed out to

him a spot where a new road was forming, and
D

50

where, a few days before, one of the workmen had
been overwhelmed by a quantity of rubbish falling
upon him, which fairly chopped off one of his legs,
and so much damaged the other that it was feared
amputation would be necessary. Near this very spot
there is a park in which, about a month previously,
I practised throwing the stone. On passing the
Exchange on my way home, I expressed regret at
the lowness of its situation, and remarked what a
fine effect the portico would have were it placed
upon more elevated ground. Such were the pre-
vious circumstances, and let us see how they bear
upon the dream. In the first place, the canal ap-
peared before me. 2. Its situation is an elevated
one. 3. The portico of the Exchange, occurring
to my mind as being placed too low, became asso-
ciated with the elevation of the canal, and I placed
it close by on a similar altitude. 4. The gentleman
I had been walking with was the same whom, in the
dream, I saw standing upon the steps of the portico.
5. Having related to him the story of the man who
lost one limb, and had a chance of losing another,
this idea brings before me a friend with a brace of
wooden legs, who, moreover, appears in connexion
with putting the stone, as I know him to excel at

that exercise. There is only one other element in

51

the dream which the preceding events will not ac-
count for, and that is, the surprise at the individual
referred to having morethanone woodenleg. But why
should he have even one, seeing that in reality he
is limbed like other people? This also I can account
for. Some years ago, he slightly injured his knee
while leaping a ditch, and I remember of jocularly
advising him to get it cut off. I am particular in
illustrating this point with regard to dreams, for I
hold, that if it were possible to analyze them all,
they would invariably be found to stand in the same
relation to the waking state as the above specimen.
The more diversified and incongruous the charac-
ter of a dream, and the more remote from the period
of its occurrence the circumstances which suggest
it, the more difficult does its analysis become ; and,
in point of fact, this process may be impossible, so
totally are the elements of the dream often dis-
severed from their original source, and so Iudi-
crously huddled together. This subject shall be
more fully demonstrated in speaking of the remote
causes of dreams.

Dreams generally arise without any assignable
cause, but sometimes we can very readily discover
their origin. Whatever has much interested us

during the day, is apt to resolve itself into a dream ;

52

and this will generally be pleasurable, or the re-
verse according to the nature of the exciting cause.
If, for instance, our reading or conversation be of
horrible subjects, such as spectres, murders, or con-
flagrations, they will appear before us magnified
and heightened in our dreams. Or if we have been
previously sailing upon a rough sea, we are apt to
suppose ourselves undergoing the perils of ship-
wreck. Pleasurable sensations during the day are
also apt to assume a still more pleasurable aspect in
dreams. In like manner, if we have a longing for
any thing, we are apt to suppose that we possess it.
Even objects altogether unattainable are placed
within our reach: we achieve impossibilities, and
triumph with ease over the invincible laws of
nature.

A disordered state of the stomach and liver will
often produce dreams. Persons of bad digestion,
especially hypochondriacs, are harassed with visions
of the most frightful nature. This fact was well
known to the celebrated Mrs. Radcliffe, who, for
the purpose of filling her sleep with those phantoms
of horror, which she has so forcibly embodied in
the “ Mysteries of Udolpho,” and “ Romance of
the Forest,” is said to have supped upon the most
indigestible substances ; while Dryden and Fuseli,

53

with the opposite view of obtaining splendid dreams,
are reported to have eaten raw flesh. Diseases of
the chest, where the breathing is impeded, also give
rise to horrible visions, and constitute the frequent
causes of that most frightful modification of dream-
ing—night-mare.

The usual intoxicating agents have all the power
of exciting dreams. The most exquisite visions, as
well as the most frightful, are perhaps those occa-
sioned by narcotics, These differences depend on
the dose and the particular state of the system at
the time of taking it. Dreams also may arise from
the deprivation of customary stimuli, such as spirits,
or supper before going to bed. More frequently,
however, they originate from indulging in such
excitations.

A change of bed will sometimes induce dreams ;
and, generally speaking, they are more apt to occur
in a strange bed than in the one to which we are
accustomed.

Dreams often arise from the impressions made
upon the senses during sleep. Dr. Beattie speaks
of a man on whom any kind of dream could
be induced, by his friends gently speaking in his
presence upon the particular subject which they

54

wished him to dream about. I have often tried this
experiment upon persons asleep, and more than once
with a like result. I apprehend, that when this
takes place, the slumber must have been very im-
perfect. With regard to the possibility of dreams
being produced by bodily impressions, Dr. Gregory
relates, that having occasion to apply a bottle of hot
water to his feet when he went to bed, he dreamed
that he was making a journey to the top of Mount
Ktna, and that he found the heat of the ground almost
insufferable. Another person having a blister applied
to his head, imagined that he was scalped by a party
of Indians; while a friend of mine happening to
sleep in damp sheets, dreamed that. he was dragged
through a stream. A paroxysm of gout during sleep,
has given rise to the person supposing himself under
the power of the Inquisition, and undergoing the
torments of the rack. The bladder is sometimes
emptied during sleep, from the dreaming idea being
directed (in consequence of the unpleasant fulness of
the viscus) to this particular want of nature. These
results are not uniform, but such is the path in
which particular bodily states are apt to lead the
imagination; and dreams, occurring in these states,

will more frequently possess a character analogous

55

to them than to any other—modified, of course,
by the strength of the individual cause, and fer-
tility of the fancy.

Some curious experiments in regard to this point,
were made by M. Giron de ‘Buzareingues, which
seem to establish the practicability of a person de-
termining at will the nature of his dreams. By
leaving his knees uncovered, he dreamed that he
travelled during night in a diligence: travellers, he
observes, being aware that in a coach it is the knees
that get cold during the night. On another occa-
sion, having left the posterior part of his head un-
covered, he dreamed that he was present at a reli-
gious ceremony performed in the open air. It was
the custom of the country in which he lived to have
the head constantly covered, except on particular
occasions, such as the above. On awaking, he felt
the back of his neck cold, as he had often experi-
enced during the real scenes, the representation of
which had been conjured up by his fancy. Having
repeated this experiment at the end of several days,
to assure himself that the result was not the effect
of chance, the second vision turned out precisely the
same as the first. Even without making experi-
ments, we have frequent evidence of similar facts ;

thus, if the clothes chance to fall off us, we are liable

56

to suppose that we are parading the streets in a
state of nakedness, and feel all the shame and in-
convenience which such a condition would in reality
produce. We see crowds of people following after
us and mocking our nudity; and we wander from
place to place seeking a refuge under this ideal mis-
fortune. Fancy, in truth, heightens every circum-
stance, and inspires us with greater vexation than
we would feel if actually labouring under such an
annoyance. The streets in which we wander are
depicted with the force of reality; we see their
windings, their avenues, their dwelling-places, with
intense truth. Even the inhabitants who follow us
are exposed to view in all their various dresses and
endless diversities of countenance. Sometimes we
behold our intimate friends gazing upon us with
indifference, or torturing with annoying imperti-
nence. Sometimes we see multitudes whom we
never beheld before; and each individual is exposed
so vividly, that we could describe, or even paint
his aspect.

In like manner, if we lie awry, or if our feet slip
over the side of the bed, we often imagine ourselves
standmg upon the brink of a fearful precipice,

or falling from its beetling summit into the abyss

57

beneath.* If the rain or hail patter against our
window, we have often the idea of a hundred ¢a-
taracts pouring from the rocks; if the wind howl
without, we are suddenly wrapt up in a thunder-
storm, with all its terrible associations; if the head
happen to slip under the pulow, a huge rock is
hanging over us, and ready to crush us beneath its
ponderous bulk. Should the heat of the body
chance to be increased by febrile irritation or the
temperature of the room, we may suppose our-
selves basking under the fiery sun of Africa; or if,
from any circumstance, we labour under a chill, we
3 may then be careering and foundering among the ice-
bergs of the pole, while the morse and the famished
bear are prowling around us, and claiming us for
their prey. Dr. Beattie informs us, that once, after
riding thirty miles in a high wind, he passed the
night in visions terrible beyond description. The
- extent, in short, to which the mind is capable of
being carried in such cases, is almost incredible.

Sz Wis “ape as ca ee he adeeb Mia

* Dr, Currie, in allusion to the visions of the hypochondriac,
observes, that if he dream of falling into the sea, he awakes just
as the waters close over him, and is sensible of the precise
gurgling sound which those experience who actually sink under
water. In falling from heights, during dreams, we always awake
before reaching the ground,

D2

58

Stupendous events arise from the most insignificant
causes—so completely does sleep magnify and dis-
tort every thing placed within its influence. The
province of dreams is one of intense exaggeration—
exaggeration beyond even the wildest conceptions of
Oriental romance.

A smoky chamber, for instance, has given rise
to the idea of a city in flames. The conflagrations
of Rome and Moscow may then pass in terrific
splendour before the dreamer’s fancy. He may see
Nero standing afar off, surrounded by his lictors
and guards, gazing upon the imperial city wrapt
in flames: or the sanguinary fight of Borodino,
followed by the burning of the ancient capital of
Russia, may be presented before him with all the
intenseness of reality. Under these circumstances,
his whole being may undergo a change. He is no
longer a denizen of his native country, but of that
land to which his visions have transported him. All
the events of his own existence fade away; and he
becomes a native of Rome or Russia, gazing upon
the appalling spectacle.

On the other hand, the mind may be filled with
imagery equally exaggerated, but of a more pleas-
ing character. The sound of a flute in the neigh-

bourhood may invoke a thousand beautiful and de-

59

lightful associations. The air is, perhaps, filled
with the tones of harps, and all other varieties of
music--nay, the performers themselves are visible ;
and while the cause of this strange scene is one
trivial instrument, we may be regaled with a rich
and melodious concert. For the same reason a
flower being applied to the nostrils may, by affecting
the sense of smell, excite powerfully the imagina-
tion, and give the dreamer the idea of walking in a
garden.

There is one fact connected with dreams which
is highly remarkable. When we are suddenly
awaked from a profound slumber by a loud knock
at, or by the rapid opening of, the door, a train of
actions which it would take hours, or days, or even
weeks to accomplish, sometimes passes through the
mind. Time, in fact, seems to be in a great .mea-
sure annihilated. An extensive period is reduced,
as it were, to a single point, or rather a single point
is made to embrace an extensive period. In one
instant, we pass through man y adventures, see many
strange sights, and hear many strange sounds. If
we are awaked by a loud knock, we have perhaps
the idea of a tumult passing before us, and know
all the characters engaged in it—their aspects, and
even their very names. If the door open violently,

60

the flood-gates of a canal may appear to be expand-
ing, and we may see the individuals employed in the
process, and hear their conversation, which may
seem an hour in length. Ifa light be brought into
the room, the notion of the house being in flames per-
haps invades us, and we are witnesses to the whole con-
flagration from its commencement till it be finally
extinguished. The thoughts which arise in such
situations are endless, and assume an infinite variety
of aspects. The whole, indeed, constitutes one of
the strangest phenomena of the human mind, and
calls to recollection the story of the Eastern mon-
arch, who, on dipping his head into the magician’s
water-pail, fancied he had travelled for years in
various nations, although he was only immersed for
a single instant. This curious psychological fact,
though occurring under somewhat different circum-
stances, has not escaped the notice of Mr. De
Quincey, better known as the “ English Opium-
Kater.” “The sense of space,” says he, “and, in
the end, the sense of time were both powerfully
affected. Buildings, landscapes, &c., were exhibited
in proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted
to receive. Space swelled, and was amplified to an
extent of unutterable infinity. This, however, did

not disturb me so much as the expansion of time.

61

I sometimes seemed to have lived for seventy or a
hundred years in one night; nay, sometimes had
feelings representative of a millennium passed in
that time, or, however, of a duration far beyond the
limits of any human experience.” It is more easy
to state the fact of this apparent expansion of time
in dreams than to give any theory which will satis-
factorily account for it. I believe that, whenever it
occurs, the dream has abounded in events and circum-
stances which, had they occurred in reality, would
have required a long period for their accomplish-
ment. For instance, I lately dreamed that I made
a voyage to India—remained some days in Calcutta
-—then took ship for Egypt, where I visited the
cataracts of the Nile, and the Pyramids: and, to
crown the whole, had the honour of an interview
with Mehemet Ali, Cleopatra and the Sultan Sala-
din. All this was the work of a single night,
probably of a single hour, or even a few minutes ;
and yet it appeared to occupy many months.

{ must also mention another circumstance of a
somewhat similar kind, which, though it occur in the
waking condition, is produced by the peculiar effect
of previous sleep upon the mind. Thus, when we
awake in a melancholy mood, the result probably of

some distressing dream, the remembrance of all our

62

former actions, especially those of an evil charac-
ter, often rushes upon us as from a dark and troubled
sea.* They do not appear individually, one by one,
but come linked together in a close phalanx, as if to
take the conscience by storm, and crush it beneath
their imposing front. The whole span of our exist-
ence, from childhood downwards, sends them on;
oblivion opens its gulphs and impels them forwards;
and the mind is robed in a cloud of wretchedness,
without one ray of hope to brighten up its gloom.
In common circumstances, we possess no such
power of grouping so instantaneously the most dis-
tant and proximate events of life: the spell of memory
is invoked to call them successively from the past ;
and they glide before us like shadows, more or less
distinct according to their remoteness, or the force
of their impress upon the mind. But in the case of
which I speak, they start abruptly forth from the
bosom of time, and overwhelm the spirit with a
crowd of most sad and appalling reminiscences. In

the crucible of our distorted imagination, every

* Something similar occursin drowning. Persons recovered
from this state have mentioned that, in the course of a single
minute, almost every event of their life has been brought to their
recollection.

63

thing is exaggerated and invested with a blacker
gloom than belongs to it; we see, at one glance,
down the whole vista of time; and each event of
our life is written there in gloomy and distressing
characters. Hence the mental depression occurring
under these circumstances, and even the remorse
which falls, like bitter and unrefreshing dews, upon
the heart.

We have seldom any idea of past events in
dreams; if such are called forth, they generally
seem to be present and in the process of actual oc-
currence. We may dream of Alexander the Great,
but it is as of a person who is co-existent with our-
selves.

Dreams being produced by the active state of
such organs as are disassociated from, or have not
sympathized in, the general slumber, partake of the
character of those whose powers are in greatest vigour,
or farthest removed from the somnolent state. A per-
son’s natural character, therefore, or his pursuits in
life, by strengthening one faculty, make it less sus-
ceptible, than such as are weaker, of being overcome
by complete sleep ; or, if it be overcome, it awakes
more rapidly from its dormant state, and exhibits its
proper characteristics in dreams. Thus, the miser

dreams of wealth, the lover of his mistress, the

64

musician of melody, the philosopher of science,

the merchant of trade, and the debtor of duns and
~ pailiffs. In like manner, a choleric man is often
passionate in his sleep ; a vicious man’s mind is filled
with wicked actions ; a virtuous man’s with deeds of
benevolence; a humorist’s with ludicrous ideas.
Pugnacious people often fight on such occasions,
and do themselves serious injury by striking against
the posts of the bed; while persons addicted to
lying, frequently dream of exercising their favourite
vocation.

For such reasons persons who have a strong pas-
sion for music often dream of singing and compos-
ing melodies; and the ideas of some of our finest
pieces are said to have been communicated to the
musician in his sleep. Tartini, a celebrated violin
player, is said to have composed his famous Devil's
Sonata from the inspiration of a dream, in which
the Devil appeared to him and challenged him to a
trial of skill upon his own fiddle. A mathemati-
cian, in like manner, is often engaged in the solu-
tion of problems, and has his brain full of Newton,
Kuler, Euclid, and Laplace: while a poet is occu-
pied in writing verses, or in deliberating upon the
strains of such bards as are most familiar to his
spirit: it was thus in a dream that Mr. Coleridge

65

composed his splendid fragment of Kubla Khan.*
To speak phrenologically: if the organ of Size be

large, then material images more than sounds or

abstractions possess the mind, and every thing may be
eens

* The following is the account he himself gives of the circum-
stance :—* In the summer of the year 1797, the author, then in
ill health, had retired toa lonely farm-house between Porlock
and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devon-
shire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had
been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his
chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence,
or words of the same substance, in ‘ Purchas’s Pilgrimage :°—
‘ Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a
stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground

“were enclosed with a wall.’ The author continued for about
three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses,
during which time he had the most vivid confidence, that he
could not have composed less than from two to three hundred
lines ; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the
images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production
of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or con-~ -
sciousness of effort. On awaking, he appeared to himself to
have a distinct recollection of the whole; and, taking his pen, ink,
and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are
here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called
out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him
above an hour; and on his return to his room, found, to his no
small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained
some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the
vision ; yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered
lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on
the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but
alas ! without the after-restoration of the latter.”

66

magnified to unnatural dimensions ; if Colour be fully
developed, whatever is presented to the mental eye
is brilliant and gaudy, and the person has probably
the idea of rich paintings, shining flowers, or varied
landscapes; should Locality predominate, he is car-
ried away to distant lands, and beholds more ex-
traordinary sights than Cook, Ross, or Frank-
lin ever described. An excess of Cautiousness will
inspire him with terror; an excess of Self-esteem
cause him to be placed in dignified situations ; while
Imitation may render him a mimic or a player;
Language, a wrangler or philologist ; Secretiveness,
a deceiver; Acquisitiveness, a thief. Occasionally,
indeed, the reverse is the case, and those trains of
thought in which we mostly indulge are seldom or
never the subjects of our dreams. Some authors
even assert that when the mind has been strongly
impressed with any peculiar ideas, such are less
likely to occur in dreams than their opposites ; but
this is taking the exception for the general rule,
and is directly at variance with both experience and
analogy. In fact, whatever propensities or talents
are strongest in the mind of the individual, will, in
most cases, manifest themselves with greatest readi-
ness and force in dreams; and where a faculty is

very weak it will scarcely manifest itself at all.

67

Thus, one person who has large Tune and small Caus-
ality will indulge in music, but seldom in ascer-
taining the nature of cause and effect ; while another,
with a contrary disposition of organs, may attempt
to reason upon abstract truths, while music will
rarely intrude into the temple of his thoughts. It
is but fair to state, however, that the compositions,
the reasonings and the poems which we concoct in
sleep, though occasionally superior to those of our
waking hours,* are generally of a very absurd de-
scription ; and, how admirable soever they may have
appeared, their futility is abundantly evident when
we awake. To use the words of Dr. Parr, « In
dreams we seem to reason, to argue, to compose ;
and in all these circumstances, during sleep, we are
highly gratified, and think that we excel. If, how-
ever, we remember our dreams, our reasonings we
find to be weak, our arguments we find to be incon-

clusive, and our compositions trifling and absurd.”
BOIL Ao a en ee Se, ee SP

* Such was the case with Cabanis, who often, during dreams,
saw clearly into the bearings of political events which had
baffled him when awake; and with Condorcet, who, when en-
gaged in some deep and complicated calculations, was frequently
obliged to leave them in an unfinished state, and retire to rest,
when the results to which they led were at once unfolded in his
dreams.

68

The truth of these remarks is undeniable ; but the
very circumstance of a man’s dreams turning habi-
tually upon a particular subject—however ridicu-
lously he may meditate thereupon—is a strong pre-
sumption that that subject is the one which most
frequently engrosses his faculties in the waking
state: in a word, that the power most energetic in
the latter condition is that alsomost active in dreams.

Dreams are sometimes useful in affording prog-
nostics of the probable termination of several dis-
eases. Violent and impetuous dreams occurring in
fevers generally indicate approaching delirium ;
those of a gloomy terrific nature give strong grounds
to apprehend danger; while dreams of a pleasant
cast may be looked upon as harbingers of approach-
ing recovery. The visions, indeed, which occur in
a state of fever are highly distressing: the mind is —
vehemently hurried on from one train of ideas to
another, and participates in the painful activity of
the system. Those generated by hypochondria or
indigestion are equally afflicting, but more confined
to one unpleasant idea—the intellect being over-
powered, as it were, under the pressure of a pon-
derous load, from which it experiences an utter in-

capacity to relieve itself. The febrile dream has a

69

fiery, volatile, fugitive character : the other partakes
of the nature of night-mare, in which the faculties
seem frozen to torpor, by the presence of a loath-
some and indolent fiend.

Other diseases and feelings besides fever give a
character to dreams. The dropsical subject often
has the idea of fountains, and rivers, and seas, in
his sleep ; jaundice tinges the objects beheld with
its own yellow and sickly hue; hunger induces
dreams of eating agreeable food; an attack of in-
flammation disposes us to see all things of the
colour of blood; excessive thirst presents us with
visions of dried up streams, burning sand-plains, and
immitigable heat; a bad taste in the mouth, with
every thing bitter and nauseous in the vegetable
world.

If, from any cause, we chance to be relieved from
the physical suffering occasioning such dreams, the
dreams themselves also wear away, or are succeeded
by others of a more pleasing description. Thus, if
perspiration succeed to feverish heat, the person
who, during the continuance of the latter, fancied
himself on the brink of a volcano, or broiled beneath
an African sun, is transported to some refreshing
stream, and enjoys precisely the pleasure which such
a transition would produce did it actually take place.

70

Some authors imagine that we never dream of

objects which we have not seen; but the absurdity
of this notion is so glaring as to carry its own refu-
tation along with it. I have a thousand times
dreamed of such objects.
_ When a person has a strong desire to see any
place or object which he has never seen before, he
is apt to dream about it ; while, as soon as his desire
is gratified, he often ceases so todream. I remem-
ber of hearing a great deal of the beauty of Rouen
Cathedral, and in one form or other it was con-
stantly presented before my imagination in dreams;
but having at last seen the cathedral I never again
dreamed about it. This is not the invariable result
ofa gratified wish; but it happens so often that it
may be considered a general rule.

Sometimes we awake from dreams in a pleasing
at other times in a melancholy mood, without being
able to recollect them. They leave a pleasurable
or disagreeable impression upon the mind, accord-
ing doubtless to their nature; and yet we cannot
properly remember what we were dreaming about.
Sometimes, though bafiled at the time, we can recall
them afterwards, but this seldom happens.

It often happens that the dreamer, under the in-
fluence of a frightful vision, leaps from his bed and.

71

calls aloud in a paroxysm of terror. This is very
frequently the case with children and persons of
weak nerves; but it may happen even with the
Strongest minded. There is something peculiarly
horrible and paralyzing in the terror of sleep. It
lays the energies of the soul prostrate before it,
crushes them to the earth as beneath the weight of
an enormous vampyre, and equalizes for a time the
courage of the hero and the child. No firmness of
mind can at all times withstand the influence of
these deadly terrors. The person awakes panic-
struck from some hideous vision; and even after
reason returns and convinces him of the unreal na.
ture of his apprehensions, the panic for some time
continues, his heart throbs violently, he is co-
vered with cold perspiration, and hides his head be-
neath the bedclothes, afraid to Jook around him,
lest some dreadful object of alarm should start
up before his affrighted vision. Courage and phi-
losophy are frequently opposed in vain to these ap-
palling terrors. The latter dreads what it disbe-
lieves ; and spectral forms, sepulchral voices, and all
the other horrid superstitions of sleep arise to vin-
dicate their power over that mind, which, under the

fancied protection of reason and science, conceived

72

itself shielded from all such attacks, but which, in
the hour of trial, often sinks beneath their influence
as completely as the ignorant and unreflecting hind,
who never employed a thought as to the real nature
of these fantastic and illusive sources of terror.
The alarm of a frightful dream is sometimes so
overpowering, that persons under the impression,
thus generated, of being pursued by some imminent
danger, have actually leaped out of the window to
the great danger and even loss of their lives. In
the 9th volume of the “ Philosophical Transactions
of the Royal Society of London,” a curious case is
given by Archdeacon Squire, of a person who, after
having been dumb for years, recovered the use of
his speech by means of a dream of this description:
“ One day, in the year 1741, he got very much in
liquor, so much so, that on his return home at night
to the Devizes, he fell from his horse three or four
times, and was at last taken up by a neighbour, and
put to bed in a house on the road. He soon fell
asleep ; when, dreaming that he was falling into a
furnace of boiling wort, it put him into so great an
agony of fright, that, struggling with all his might to
call out for help, he actually did call out aloud, and
recovered the use of his tongue that moment, as

73

effectually as he ever had it in his life, without the least
hoarseness or alteration in the oldsound ofhis voice.”

There have been instances where the terror
of a frightful dream has been so great as even to
produce insanity. Many years ago, a woman in the
West Highlands, in consequence of a dream of this
kind, after being newly brought to bed, became
deranged, and soon after made her escape to the
mountains, where, for seven years, she herded with
the deer, and became go fleet that the shepherds and
others, by whom she was occasionally seen, could
never arrest her. At the end of this term, avery
severe storm brought her and her associates to the
valley, when she was surrounded, caught, and con-
veyed to her husband, by whom she was cordially
received and treated with the utmost kindness. In
the course of three months, she regained her reason,
and had afterwards several children. When caught,
her body is said to have been covered with hair,
thus giving a colour to the story of Orson and other
wild men of the wood.

Instances have not been wanting where, under
the panic of a frightful vision, persons have actually
committed murder. They awake from such a
dream—they see some person standing in the room,
whom they mistake for an assassin, or dreadful

E

74

apparition: driven to desperation by terror, they
seize the first weapon that occurs, and inflict a fatal
wound upon the object of their alarm. Hoffbauer,
in his Treatise on Legal Medicine, relates a case of
this kind. Although he does not state that the
- circumstance which occasioned the panic was a pre-
vious dream of terror, I do not doubt that such, in
reality, must have been the case. “ A report,” says
he, “of the murder committed by Bernard Schid-
maizig was made by the Criminal College of Silesia.
Schidmaizig awoke suddenly at midnight: at the
moment of awaking, he beheld a frightful phantom
(at least his imagination so depicted it) standing
near him, (in consequence of the heat of the weather
he slept in an open coach-house). Fear, and the
obscurity of the night, prevented him from recog-
nising any thing distinctly, and the object which
struck his vision appeared to him an actual spectre.
In a tremulous tone, he twice called out, wha goes
there ?—he received no answer, and imagined that
the apparition was approaching him. Frightened
out of his judgment, he sprung from his bed,
seized a hatchet which he generally kept close by
him, and with this weapon assaulted the imaginary
spectre. To see the apparition, to call out, who goes

there 2? and to seize the hatchet were the work of a

75

moment: he had not an instant for reflection, and
with one blow the phantom was felled to the ground.
Schidmaizig uttered a deep groan. This, and the
noise occasioned by the fall of the phantom, com-
pletely restcred him to his senses; and all at once
the idea flashed across his mind that he must have
struck down his wife, who slept in the same coach-
house. Falling instantly upon his knees, he raised
the head of the wounded person, saw the wound
which he had made, and the blood that flowed from
it; and in avoicefull of anguish exclaimed Susannah,
Susannah, come to yourself! He then called his eldest
daughter, aged eight years, ordered her to see if her
mother was recovering, and to inform her grand-
mother that he had killed her. In fact, it was his
unhappy wife who received the blow, and she died
the next day.”*

a ee) Oe EE

* This case is highly important ina legal point of view ; and
to punish a man for acting similarly in such a state would ke
as unjust as to inflict punishment for deeds committed under
the influence of insanity or somnambulism. “ This man,” as
Hoffbauer properly remarks, “did not enjoy the free use of his
senses: he knew not what he saw: he believed that he was
repulsing an unlooked-for attack. He soon recognised the
place where he usually slept: it was natural that he should
seize the hatchet since he had taken the precaution to place it

beside him ; but the idea of his wife and the possibility of killing
her were the last things that occurred to him.”

76

The passion of horror is more frequently felt in
dreams than at any other period. Horror is in-
tense dread, produced by some unknown or super-
latively disgusting object. The visions of sleep,
therefore, being frequently undefined, and of the
most revolting description, are apt to produce this
emotion, as they are to occasion simple fear. Under
its influence, we may suppose that fiends are lowering
upon us; that dismal voices, as from the bottomless pit,
or from the tomb, are floating around us ; that we are
haunted by apparitions ; or that serpents, scorpions
and demons are our bed-fellows. Such sensations
are strongly akin to those of night-mare ; but be-
tween this complaint and a mere dream of terror,
there is a considerable difference. In incubus, the
individual feels as if his powers of volition were
totally paralyzed ; and as if he were altogether un-
able to move a limb in his own behalf, or utter a
cry expressive of his agony. When these feelings
exist, we may consider the case to be one of night-
mare: when they do not, and when, notwithstand-
ing his terror, he seems to himself to possess unre-
strained muscular motion, to run with ease, breathe
freely, and enjoy the full capability of exertion, it
must be regarded as a simple dream.

Dr. Elliotson has remarked, with great acuteness,

77

that dreams, in which the perceptive faculties alone
are concerned, are more incoherent, and subject to
more rapid transitions than those in which one or
more of the organs of the feelings are also in a state
of activity. “ Thus, in our dreams, we may walk on
the brink of a precipice, or see ourselves doomed
to immediate destruction by the weapon of a foe,
or the fury of a tempestuous sea, and yet feel not the
slightest emotion of fear, though, during the perfect
activity of the brain, we may be naturally disposed
to the strong manifestation of this feeling ; again
we may see the most extraordinary object or event
without surprise, perform the most ruthless crime
without compunction, and see what, in our waking
hours, would cause us unmitigated grief, without the
smallest feeling of sorrow.”

Persons are to be found, who, when they speak
much during sleep, are unable to remember their
dreams on awaking, yet recollect them perfectly if
they do not speak. This fact is not very easily
accounted for. Probably when we are silent, the
mind is mere directed upon the subject of the dream,
and not so likely to be distracted from it. There
is perhaps another explanation. When we dream
of speaking, or actually speak, the necessity of using

language infers the exercise of some degree of

78

reason ; and, thus the incongruities of the dream be-
ing diminished, its nature becomes less striking, and
consequently less likely to be remembered. Though
we often dream of performing impossibilities, we
seldom imagine that we are relating them to

others.
When we dream of visible objects, the sensibility

of the eyes is diminished in a most remarkable man-
ner; and on opening them, they are much less
dazzled by the light than if we awoke from a slum-
ber altogether unvisited by such dreams. <A fact
equally curious is noticed by Dr. Darwin, in his
“ Zoonomia :’—“ If we sleep in the day-time, and
endeavour to see some object in our dreams, the
light is exceedingly painful to our eyes; and, after
repeated struggles, we lament in our sleep that we
cannot see it. In this case, I apprehend, the eye-
lid is in some measure opened by the vehemence of
our sensations ; and the iris being dilated, shows as
great, or greater, sensibility than in our waking
hours.”

There are some persons to whom the objects of
their dreams are always represented in a soft, mellow
lustre, similar to twilight. They never seem to
behold any thing in the broad glare of sunshine ;

and, in general, the atmosphere of our visions is

79

less brilliant than that through which we are ac-
customed to see things while awake.

The most vivid dreams are certainly those which
have reference to sight. With regard to hearing,
they are less distinctly impressed upon the mind,
and still more feebly as regards smell, or taste.
Indeed, some authors are of opinion that we never
dream of sounds, unless when a sound takes place
to provoke the dream; and the same with regard to
smell and taste ; but this doctrine is against analogy,
and unsupported by proof. There are, beyond
doubt, certain parts of the brain which take cog-
nizance of tastes, odours and sounds, for the same
reason that there are others which recognise forms,
dimensions and colours. As the organs of the
three latter sensations are capable of inward excite-
ment, without any communication, by means of the
senses, with the external world, it is no more than
analogical to infer that, with the three former, the
same thing may take place. In fever, although the
individual is ever so well protected against the
excitement of external sounds, the internal organ
is often violently stimulated, and he is harassed
with tumultuous noises. For such reasons, it is

evident that there may be in dreams a consciousness

80

of sounds, of tastes and of odours, where such have
no real existence from without.

Dreams are sometimes exceedingly obscure, and
float like faint clouds over the spirit. We can then
resolve them into nothing like shape or consistence,
but have an idea of our minds being filled with dim,
impalpable imagery, which is so feebly impressed
upon the tablet of memory, that we are unable to
embody it in language, or communicate its likeness
to others.

At other times, the objects of sleep are stamped
with almost supernatural energy. The dead, or the
absent, whose appearance to our waking faculties
had become faint and obscure, are depicted with
intense truth and reality; and even their voices,
which had become like the echo of a forgotten song,
are recalled from the depths of oblivion, and speak
to us as informer times. Dreams, therefore, have
the power of brightening up the dim regions of the
past, and presenting them with a force which the
mere effects of unassisted remembrance could never
have accomplished in our waking hours.

This property of reviving past images, is one of
the most remarkable possessed by sleep. It even

goes the length, in some cases, of recalling circum.

81

stances which had been entirely forgotten, and pre-
senting them to the mind with more than the force
of their original impression. This I conceive to
depend upon a particular part of the brain—that,
for instance, which refers to the memory of the
event—being preternaturally excited: hence for-
gotten tongues are sometimes brought back to the
memory in dreams, owing doubtless to some pecu-
liar excitement of the organ of Language. The
dreamer sometimes converses in a language of which
he has no knowledge whatever when he awakes,
but with which he must at one period have been ac-
quainted. Phenomena of a similar kind occasionally
occur in madness, delirium, or intoxication, all of
which states have an analogy to dreaming. It is not
uncommon, for instance,to witness, in the insane,an un-
expected and astonishing resuscitation of knowledge
—an intimacy with events and languages of which
they were entirely ignorant in the sound state of their
minds. In like manner, in the delirium attendant

upon fevers, people sometimes speak in a tongue*

* A girl was seized with a dangerous fever, and, in the deliri-
ous paroxysm accompanying it, was observed to speak in a
strange language which, for some time, no one could under-
stand. At last it was ascertained to be Welsh—a tongue
she was wholly ignorant of at the time she was taken ill,

BQ

82

they know nothing of in health ; and in drunkenness
events are brought to the memory which desert it
in a state of sobriety.* Analogous peculiarities
occur in dreams. Forgotten facts are restored to
the mind. Sometimes those adhere to it and are
remembered when we awake: at other times—as
can be proved in cases of sleep-talking—they van-
ish with the dream which called them into existence,
and are recollected no more.

I believe that the dreams of the aged, like their
memory, relate chiefly to the events of early life,
and jess to those of more recent occurrence. My

friend, Dr. Cumin, has mentioned to me the case

and of which she could not speak a single syllable after her
recovery. For some time the circumstance was unaccountable,
till, on inquiry, it was found she was a native of Wales, and had
been familiar with the language of that country in her child-
hood, but had wholly forgotten it afterwards. During the
delirium of fever, the obliterated impressions of infancy were
brought to her mind, and continued to operate there so long as
she remained under the mental excitation oecasioned by the
disease, but no longer; for so soon as the state of mind which
recalled these impressions was removed, they also disappeared,
and she was as ignorant of Welsh as before she was taken ill.

* Mr Combe mentions the case of an Irish porter to a ware-
house, who, in one of his drunken fits, left a parcel at the wrong
house, and when sober could net recollect what he had done
with it; but the next time he got drunk, he recollected where
he had left it, and went and recovered it.

83

of one of his patients, a middle-aged man, whose
visions assumed this character in consequence of
severe mental anxiety. Owing to misfortunes in trade,
his mind had been greatly depressed: he lost his
appetite, became restless, nervous and dejected; such
sleep as he had was filled with incessant dreams,
which at first were entirely of events connected
with the earliest period of his life, so far as he
recollected it, and never by any chance of late
events. In proportion as he recovered from this
state, the dreams changed their character, and
referred to circumstances farther on in life; and
so regular was the progression, that, with the
march of his recovery, so was the onward march of
his dreams. During the worst period of his illness,
he dreamed of occurrences which happened in boy-
hood: no sooner was convalescence established than
his visions had reference to manhood ; and on com-
plete recovery they were of those recent circum-
stances which had thrown him into bad health. In
this curious case, one lateral half of the head was
much warmer than the other. This was so remark-
able as to attract the notice of the barber who
shaved it. |

One of the most remarkable phenomena of dreams
is the absence of surprise. This, indeed, is not in-

84,

variable, as every one must occasionally have felt the
sensation of surprise, and been not a little puzzled
in his visions to account for the phenomena which
present themselves; but, as a general rule, its absence
is so exceedingly common, that, when surprise does
occur, it is looked upon as an event out of the
common order, and remarked accordingly. Scarcely
any event, however incredible, impossible, or
absurd, gives rise to this sensation. We see
circumstances at utter variance with the laws of
nature, and yet their discordancy, impracticability
and oddness seldom strike us as at all out of the
usual course of things. This is one of the strongest
proofs that can be alleged in support of the dor-
mant condition of the reflecting faculties. Had
these powers been awake, and in full activity, they
would have pointed out the erroneous nature of the
impressions conjured into existence by fancy ; and
shown us truly that the visions passing before
us were merely the chimeras of excited imagina-
tion—the airy phantoms of imperfect sleep.

In visions of the dead, we have a striking in-
stance of the absence of surprise. We almost never
wonder at beholding individuals whom we yet
know, in our dreams, to have even been buried for

years. We see them among us, and hear them talk,

85

and associate with them on the footing of fond com-
panionship. Still the circumstance seldom strikes
us with wonder, nor do we attempt to account for
it. They still seem alive as when they were on
earth, only all their qualities, whether good or bad,
are exaggerated by sleep. If we hated them while
in life, our animosity is now exaggerated to a double
degree. If we loved them, our affection becomes
more passionate and intense than ever. Under these
circumstances, many scenes of most exquisite plea-
sure often take place. The slumberer supposes
himself enjoying the communionship of those who
were dearer to him than life, and has far more in-
tense delight than he could have experienced, had
these individuals been in reality alive, and at his
side.
‘“‘ T hear thy voice in dreams
Upon me softly call,
Like echo of the mountain streams
In sportive waterfall :
I see thy form, as when
Thou wert a living thing,

And blossomed in the eyes of men

Like any flower of spring.”

Nor is the passion of love, when experienced in

dreams, less vivid than any other emotion, or the

86

sensations to which it gives rise less pleasurable. I
do not here allude to the passion in its physical
sense, but to that more moral and intellectual feel-
ing, the result of deep sensibility and attachment.
Men who never loved before, have conceived a deep
affection to some particular woman in their dreams,
which, continuing to operate upon them after they
awoke, has actually terminated in a sincere and
lasting fondness for the object of their visionary
love. Men, again, who actually are in love, dream
more frequently of this subject than of any thing
else—fancying themselves in the society of their
mistresses, and enjoying a happiness more exquisite
than is compatible with the waking state—a happi-
ness, in short, little removed from celestial. Such
feelings are not confined to men: they pervade the
female breast with equal intensity; and the young
maiden, stretched upon the couch of sleep, may have
her spirit filled with the image of her lover, while
her whole being swims in the ecstacies of impas-
sioned, yet virtuous attachment. At other times,
this pure passion may, in both sexes, be blended with
one of a grosser character ; which also may acquire
an increase of pleasurable sensation: to such an.
extent is every circumstance, whether of delight or

suffering, exaggerated by sleep.

87

For the same reason that the lover dreams of
love, does the newly-married woman dream of chil-
dren. They, especially if she have a natural fond-
ness for them—if she herself be pregnant, or pos-
sess an ardent longing for offspring—are often
the subject of her sleeping thoughts; and she
conceives herself to be encircled by them, and ex-
periencing intense pleasure in their innocent society.
Men who are very fond of children often experience
the same sensations ; and both men and women who
are naturally indifferent in this respect, seldom
dream about them, and never with any feelings of
peculiar delight. i

During the actual process of any particular dream,
we are never conscious that we are really dreaming;
but it sometimes happens that a second dream takes
place, during which we have a consciousness, or a
suspicion, that the events which took place in the
first dream were merely visionary, and not real.
People, for instance, sometimes fancy in sleep, that
they have acquired wealth: this may be called the
first dream; and during its progress they never for
a moment doubt the reality of their impressions;
wut a second one supervenes upon this, and they
then begin to wonder whether their riches be real

or imaginary—in other words, they try to ascertain

88

whether they had been previously dreaming or not.
But even in the second dream we are unconscious
of dreaming. We still seem to ourselves to be
broad awake—a proof that in dreams we are never
aware of being asleep. This unconsciousness of
being asleep during the dreaming state, is referrible
to the quiescent condition of the reasoning powers.
The mind is wholly subject to the sceptre of other
faculties; and whatever emotions or images they
invoke, seem to be real, for want of a controlling

power to point out their true character.

«¢ You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remembered in a dream.”

Those troubled with deafness do not hear dis-
tinctly such sounds as they conceive to be uttered
during sleep. Dr. Darwin speaks of a gentleman
who, for thirty years, had entirely lost his hearing,
and who in his dreams never seemed to converse
with any person except by the fingers or in writing :
he never had the impression of hearing them speak.
In like manner, a blind man seldom dreams of
visible objects, and never if he has been blind from
his birth. Dr. Blacklock, indeed, who became
blind in early infancy, may seem an exception to
this rule. While asleep, he was conscious of a

sense which he did not possess in the waking state,

89

and which bears some analogy to sight. He ima-
gined that he was united to objects by a sort of
distant contact, which was effected by threads or
strings passing from their bodies to his own.

The illusion of dreams is much more complete
than that of the most exquisite plays. We pass, in
a second of time, from one country to another ; and
persons who lived in the most different ages of the
world are brought together in strange and. incon-
gruous confusion. It is not uncommon to see,
at the same moment, Robert the Bruce, Julius
Cesar and Marlborough in close conversation.
Nothing, in short, however monstrous, incredible,
or impossible, seems absurd. Equally striking ex-
amples of illusion occur when the person awakes
from a dream, and imagines that he hears voices or
beholds persons in the room beside him. In the
first cases we are convinced, on awaking, of the
deceptive nature of our visions, from the utter im-
possibility of their occurrence: they are at variance
with natural laws; and a single effort of reason is
sufficient to point out their absolute futility. But
when the circumstances which seem to take place
are not in themselves conceived impossible, how-
ever unlikely they may be, it is often a matter of

the utmost difficulty for us to be convinced of their

90

real character. On awaking, we are seldom aware
that, when they took place, we laboured under a
dream. Such is their deceptive nature, and such
the vividness with which they appear to strike our
senses, that we imagine them real ; and accordingly
often start up in a paroxysm of terror, having
the idea that our chamber is invaded by thieves,
that strange voices are calling upon us, or that we
are haunted by the dead. When there is no way
of confuting these impressions, they often remain
ineradicably fixed in the mind, and are regarded
as actual events, instead of the mere chimeras
of sleep. This is particularly the case with the
weak-minded and superstitious, whose feelings are
always stronger than their judgments; hence the
thousand stories of ghosts and warnings with which
the imaginations of these persons are haunted—hence
the frequent occurrence of nocturnal screaming and
terror in children, whose reflecting faculties are natu-
rally too weak to correct the impressions of dreams,
and point out their true nature—hence the painful
illusions occurring even to persons of strong intellect,
when they are debilitated by watchfulness, long-
continued mental suffering, or protracted disease.
These impressions often arise without any apparent

cause: at other times, the most trivial circumstances

91

will produce them. A voice, for instance, in a
neighbouring street, may seem to proceed from our
own apartment, and may assume a character of the
most appalling description; while the tread of foot-
steps, or the knocking of a hammer over-head,
may resolve itself into a frightful figure stalking
before us.

“ T know,” says Mr. Waller, “a gentleman, who is
living at thismoment a needless slave to terror, which
arises from a circumstance which admits easily of
explanation. He was lying in his bed with his wife,
and, as he supposed, quite awake, when he felt dis-
tinctly the impression of some person’s hand upon his
right shoulder, which created such a degree of alarm
that he darednotto move himself in bed, and, indeed,
could not, if he had possessed the courage. It was
some time before he had it in his power to awake his
wife, and communicate to her the subject of his
terror. The shoulder which had felt the impression
of the hand, continued to feel benumbed and uncom-
fortable for some time. It had been uncovered, and,
most probably, the cold to which it was exposed was
the cause of the phenomenon.”*

An attack of dreaming illusion, not, however, ac-

* Waller’s “ Treatise on the Incubus or Night-Mare.”

92

companied with any unpleasant feeling, occurred to
myself lately. I had fallen accidentally asleep upon
an arm-chair, and was suddenly awaked by hearing,
as I supposed, two of my brothers talking and laugh-
ing at the door of the room, which stood wide open.
The impressions were so forcible, that I could not be-
lieve them fallacious, yet I ascertained that they were
so entirely ; for my brothers had gone to the country
an hour before, and did not return for a couple of
hours afterwards.

There are few dreams involving many circum-
stances, which are, from beginning to end, perfectly
philosophical and harmonious: there is usually some
absurd violation of the laws of consistency, a want
of congruity, a deficiency in the due relations of
cause and effect, and a string of conclusions alto-
gether unwarranted by the premises. Mr. Hood, in
his “ Whims and Oddities,” gives a curious illustra-
tion of the above facts. ‘It occurred,” says he,
‘‘when I was on the eve of marriage, a season when,
if lovers sleep sparingly, they dream profusely. A
very brief slumber sufficed to carry me, in the
night coach, to Bogner. It had been concerted
between Honoria and myself that we should pass the
honey-moon at some such place upon the coast. The

purpose of my solitary journey was to procure an

93

appropriate dwelling, and which, we had agreed
upon, should be a little pleasant house, with an
indispensable look-out upon the sea. I chose one
accordingly, a pretty villa, with bow windows, and a
prospect delightfully marine. The ocean murmur
sounded incessantly from the beach. A decent
elderly body, in decayed sables, undertook on her
part to promote the comfort of the occupants by
every suitable attention, and, as she assured me, at
a very reasonable rate. So far the nocturnal faculty
had served me truly: a day dream could not have
proceeded more orderly: but, alas! just here, when
the dwelling was selected, the sea-view was secured,
the rent agreed upon, when every thing was plaus-
ible, consistent, and rational, the incoherent fancy
erept in, and confounded all—by marrying me to
the old woman of the house !”

There are no limits to the extravagancies of those
visions sometimes called into birth by the vivid
exercise of the imagination. Contrasted with them,
the wildest fictions of Rabelais, Ariosto, or Dante,
sink into absolute probabilities. J remember of
dreaming on one occasion that I possessed ubiquity,
twenty resemblances of myself appearing in as many
different places, in the same room ; and each being

so thoroughly possessed by my own mind, that I

94

could not ascertain which of them was myself, and
which my double, &c. On this occasion, fancy so
far travelled into the regions of absurdity, that I
conceived myself riding upon my own back—one of
the resemblances being mounted upon another, and
both animated with the soul appertaining to myself,
in such a manner that I knew not whether I was the
carrier or the carried. At another time, I dreamed
that I was converted into a mighty pillar of stone,
which reared its head in the midst of a desert, where
it stood for ages, till generation after generation
melted away before it. Even in this state, though
unconscious of possessing any organs of sense, or
being else than a mass of lifeless stone, I saw every
object around—the mountains growing bald with
age—the forest trees drooping in decay ; and I heard
whatever sounds nature is inthe custom of producing,
such as the thunder-peal breaking over my naked
head, the winds howling past me, or the ceaseless
murmur of streams. At last I also waxed old, and
began to crumble into dust, while the moss and ivy
accumulated upon me, and stamped me with the
aspect of hoar antiquity. The first of these visions
may have arisen from reading Hoffman’s “ Devil’s
Elixir,” where there is an account of a man who

supposed he had a double, or, in other words, was

95

both himself and not himself; and the second had
perhaps its origin in the Heathen Mythology, a
subject to which I am extremely partial, and which
abounds in stories of metamorphosis.

Such dreams as occur in a state of drunken-
ness are remarkable for their extravagance. Exag-
geration beyond limits is a very general attendant
upon them; and they are usually of a more airy
and fugitive character than those proceeding from
almost any other source. The person seems as if
he possessed unusual lightness, and could mount
into the air, or float upon the clouds, while every
object around him reels and staggers with emotion.
But of all dreams, there are none which, for unli-
mited wildness, equal those produced by narcotics.
An eminent artist, under the influence of opium,
fancied the ghastly figures in Holbein’s «« Dance of
Death” to become vivified—each grim skeleton
being endowed with life and motion, and dancing
and grinning with an aspect of hideous reality. The
« English Opium Eater,” in his “ Confessions,” has
given a great variety of eloquent and appalling
descriptions of the effects produced by this drug
upon the imagination during sleep. Listen to one
of them : —-

‘Southern Asia is, and has been for thousands of

96

years, the part of the earth most swarming with
human life; the great officina gentium. Man is a
weed in those regions. The vast empires, also, into
which the enormous population of Asia has always
been cast, give a farther sublimity to the feelings
associated with all Oriental names or images. In
China, over and above what it has in common with
the rest of Southern Asia, I am terrified by the
modes of life, by the manners, and the barrier of
utter abhorrence and want of sympathy placed
between us by feelings deeper than I can analyze.
I could sooner live with lunatics or brute animals,
All this, and much more than I can say, or have
time to say, the reader must enter into before he
can comprehend the unimaginable horror which
these dreams of Oriental imagery and mythological
tortures impressed uponme. Under the connecting
feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights, I
brought together all creatures, birds, beasts, rep-
tiles, all trees and plants, usages and appearances,
that are found in all tropical regions, and assembled
them together in China or Indostan. From kindred
feelings I soon brought Egyptand all her gods under
the same law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned
at, chattered at, by monkeys, by paroquets, by

cockatoos. I ran into pagodas: and was fixed for

97

‘centuries at the summit, or in the secret rooms; I
was the idol; I was the priest ; I was worshipped ;
I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama
through all the forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me:
Seeva laid in wait for me. I came suddenly upon
Isis and Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which
the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was
buried for a thousand years, in stone coffins, with
mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers, at the
heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with can-
cerous kisses, by crocodiles, and laid confounded
with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds
and Nilotic mud.” |

Again: “ Hitherto the human face had mixed
often in my dreams, but not so despotically, nor
with any special power of tormenting. But now
that which I have called the tyranny of the human
face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of
my London life might be answerable for this. Be
that as it may, now it was that, upon the rocking
waters of the ocean, the human face began to appear ;
the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces,
upturned to the heavens : faces imploring, wrathful,
despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by my-
riads, by generations, by centuries :—my agitation

F

98

was infinite—my mind tossed and surged with the
ocean.”

I have already spoken of the analogy subsisting
between dreaming and insanity, and shall now men-
tion a circumstance which occurs in both states, and
points out a very marked similitude of mental con-
dition. The same thing also occasionally, or rather
frequently, takes place in drunkenness, which is, to
all intents and purposes, a temporary paroxysm of
madness. It often happens, for instance, that such
objects or persons as we have seen before and are
familiar with, become utterly changed in dreams,
and bear not the slightest resemblance to their real
aspect. It might be thought that such a circum-
stance would so completely annihilate their identity
as to prevent us from believing them to be what,
by us, they are conceived ; but such is not the case.
We never doubt that the particular object or per-
_ son presented to our eyes appears in its true charac-
ter. In illustration of this fact, I may mention,
that I lately visited the magnificent palace of Ver-
sailles in a dream, but that deserted abode of kings
stood not before me as when I have gazed upon it
broad awake ; it was not only magnified beyond

even its stupendous dimensions, and its countless

99

splendours immeasurably increased, but the very
aspect itself of the mighty pile was changed; and
instead of stretching its huge Corinthian front along
the entire breadth of an elaborate and richly fan-
tastic garden, adorned to profusion with alcoves,
fountains, waterfalls, statues, and terraces, it stood
alone in a boundless wilderness—an immense archi-
tectural creation of the Gothic ages, with a hundred
spires and ten thousand minarets sprouting up and
piercing with their pointed pinnacles the sky. The
whole was as different as possible from the reality,
but this never once occurred to my mind; and, while
gazing upon the visionary fabric, I never doubted
for an instant that it then appeared as it had ever
done, and was in no degree different from what I had
often previously beheld. |
Another dream I shall relate in illustration of
this point. It was related to me by a young lady,
and, independent of its illustrative value, is well
worthy of being preserved as a specimen of fine
imagination.—« I dreamed,” said she, “ that I stood
alone upon the brink of a dreadful precipice, at the
bottom of which rolled a great river. While gaz-
ing awe-struck upon the gulph below, some one
from behind laid a hand upon my shoulder, and, on

looking back, I saw a tall, venerable figure with a

100

long, flowing silvery beard, and clothed in white
garments, whom I at once knew to be the Saviour
of the World. ‘Do you see,’ he inquired, ‘the
great river that washes the foundation of the rock
upon which you nowstand ? I shall dry it up, so that
not a drop of its waters shall remain, and all the
fishes that are in it shall perish. He then waved
his hand, and the river was instantly dried up; and
I saw the fishes gasping and writhing in the chan-
nel, where they all straightway died. ‘ Now,’ said
le, ‘the river is dried up and the fishes are dead;
but to give you a farther testimony of my power, I
shall bring back the flood, and every creature that
was wont to inhabit it shall live again. And he
waved his hand a second time, and the river was
instantly restored, its dry bed filled with volumes
of water, and all the dead fishes brought back unto
life. On looking round to express to him my
astonishment at those extraordinary miracles, and
to fall down and worship him, he was gone; and I
stood by myself upon the precipice, gazing with
astonishment at the river which rolled a thousand
feet beneath me.” In this fine vision, the differ-
ence between the aspect of Christ as he appeared
in it, and as he is represented in the Sacred Writ-

ings, as well as in paintings, did not suggest itself

101

to the mind of the dreamer. He came in the guise
of an aged man, which is diametrically opposite to
our habitual impressions of his aspect. If it be
asked what produces such differences between the
reality and the representation, I apprehend we must
refer it to some sudden second dream or flash of
thought breaking in upon the first and confusing its
character. For instance, I have a dream of an
immense Gothic pile, when something about Ver-
sailles, somehow, occurs to my mind, and this I im-
mediately associate with the object before me. The
lady has the idea of an old man in her dream, and
the thought of Christ happening to come across her
at the instant, she identifies it involuntarily with
the object of her vision. There is yet another
explanation of the latter. The old man has the
power of working a great miracle ; so had Christ,
and she is thus led to confound the two together.
She, it is true, imagines she knows the old man at
once to be the Saviour, without any previous inti-
mation of his miraculous gifts ; but this, very possi-
bly, may be a mistake; and the knowledge which she
only acquires after witnessing his power, she may,
by the confusion attendant on dreams, suppose to
have occurred to her in the first instance. These

facts, combined with the dormant state of the re-

102

flecting faculties, which do not rectify the erroneous
impressions, render the explanation of such dreams
sufficiently easy, however puzzling, and unaccount-
able at first sight.

In some cases, the illusion is not merely confined
to sleep, but extends itself to the waking state. To
illustrate ‘this, I may state the following circum-
stance :—Some years ago, my impressions concern-
ing the aspect and localities of Inverness, were
strangely confused by a dream which I had of that
town taking so strong a hold upon my fancy as to be
mistaken for a reality. I had been there before, and
was perfectly familiar with the appearance of the
town, but this was presented in so different a light,
and with so much force by the dream, that I, at last,
became unable to say which of the two aspects was
the real one. Indeed, the visionary panorama exhi-
bited to my mind, took the strongest hold upon
it; and I rather felt inclined to believe that this
was the veritable appearance of the town, and that
the one which I had actually beheld, was merely the
illusion of the dream. This uncertainty continued
for several years, till, being again in that quarter, I
satisfied myself on the real state of the case. On
this occasion, the dream must have occurred to my

mind some time after it happened, and taken such

105

firm hold upon it as to dethrone the reality, and
take its place. I remember distinctly of fancying
that the little woody hill of Tomnachurich was in
the centre of the town, although it stands at some
distance from it; that the principal steeple was on
the opposite side of the street to that on which it
stands; and that the great mountain of Ben- Wevis,
many miles off, was in the immediate neighbour-
hood.

The power of imagination is perhaps never so
vividly displayed, as in those dreams which haunt
the guilty mind. When any crime of an infamous
character has been perpetrated, and when the person
is not so utterly hardened as to be insensible of his
iniquity, the wide storehouse of retributive ven-
geance is opened up, and its appalling horrors
poured upon him. In vain does he endeavour to
expel the dreadful remembrance of his deeds, and
bury them in forgetfulness: from the abyss of slum-
ber they start forth, as the vampyres start from their
sepulchres, and hover around him like the furies that
pursued the footsteps of Orestes;—while the voice
of conscience stuns his ears with murmurs of judg-
ment and eternity. Such is the punishment reserved
for the guilty in sleep. During the busy stir of

active existence, they may contrive to evade the

104

memory of their wickedness—to silence the whispers
of the “ still small voice” within them, and cheat
themselves with asemblance of happiness; but when
their heads are laid upon the pillow, the flimsy veil
which hung between them and crime, melts away
like an illusive vapour, and displays the latter in
naked and horrid deformity. Then, in the silence
of night, the «still small voice” is heard like an echo
from the tomb; then, a crowd of doleful remem-
brances rush in upon the criminal, no longer to be
debarred from visiting the depths of his spirit ; and
when dreams succeed to such broken and miserable
repose, it is only to aggravate his previous horrors,
and present them in a character of still more over-
whelming dread.*

« Though thy slumber may be deep,

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ;

There are shades which will not vanish,

There are thoughts thou canst not banish ;

By a power to thee unknown,

Thou canst never be alone ;

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,

Thou art gathered in a cloud ;

And for ever shalt thou dwell
In the spirit of this spell.”

* « No fiction of romance presents so awful a picture of the
ideal tyrant as that of Caligula by Suetonius. His palace—
radiant with purple and gold, but murder every-where lurking

105

Such are the principal phenomena of dreams;
and trom them it will naturally be deduced, that
dreaming may occur under a great variety of cir-
cumstances ; that it may result from the actual state
of the body, or mind previous to falling asleep ;
or exist as a train of emotions which can be re-
ferred to no apparent external cause. The forms

it assumes are also as various as the causes giving

a ee

beneath flowers; his smiles and echoing laughter, masking (yet
hardly meant to mask) his foul treachery of heart; his hideous
and tumultuous dreams; his baffled sleep, and his sleepless
nights, compose the picture of an fEschylus. What a master’s
sketch lies in those few lines :—* Incitabatur insomnio maxime ;
neque enim plus tribus horis nocturnis quiescebat ; ac ne his
placida quiete, at pavida miris rerum imaginibus: ut qui inter
ceteras pelagi quondam speciem colloquentem secum videre visus
sit, Ideoque magna parte noctis, vigilie cubandique tedio, nune
toro residens, nunc per longissimas porticus vagus, invocare
identidem atque exspectare lucem consueverat ;—t.e. But above
all, he was tormented with nervous irritation, by sleeplessness ;
for he enjoyed not more than three hours of nocturnal repose ;
nor even these in pure, untroubled rest, but agitated by phan-
tasmata of portentous augury ; as, for example, upon one oc-
casion he fancied that he saw the sea, under some definite im-
personation, conversing with himself. Hence it was, and from
this incapacity of sleeping, and from weariness of lying awake,
that he had fallen into habits of ranging all the night long
through the palace, sometimes throwing himself on a couch,
sometimes wandering along the vast corridors—watching for
the earliest dawn, and anxiously invoking its approach.”
Blackwood’s Magazine, Vol. XX XIII. p. 59.

F 2

106

rise to it, and much more striking in their na-
-ture. In dreams, imagination unfolds, most gor-
geously, the ample stores of its richly decorated
empire; and in proportion to the splendour of that
faculty in any individual, are the visions which
pass before him in sleep. But even the most
dull and passionless, while under the dreaming
influence, frequently enjoy a temporary inspira-
tion: their torpid faculties are aroused from the
benumbing spell which hung over them in the
waking state, and lighted up with the Promethean
fire of genius and romance; the prose of their frigid
spirits is converted into magnificent poetry; the
atmosphere around them peopled with new and
unheard-of imagery; and they walk in a region to
which the proudest flights of their limited energies
could never otherwise have attained.

I shall conclude this chapter with a few words
on the management of dreams.

When dreams are of a pleasing character, no one
cares any thing about their removal: it is only when
they get distressing and threaten to injure the
health of the individual, by frequent recurrence, that
his becomes an important object. When dreams
assume the character of night-mare, they must be

managed according to the methods laid down for the

107

cure of that affection. In all cases, the condition
of the digestive organs must be attended to, as
any disordered state of these parts is apt to induce
visions of a very painful character. For this pur-
pose, mild laxatives may become useful; and if the
person is subject to heartburn, he should use a little
magnesia, chalk, or carbonate of soda, occasionally.
Attention, also, must be paid to the diet; and as
suppers, with some people, have a tendency to gen-
erate dreams of all kinds, these meals should, in
such cases, be carefully avoided. Atthe same time,
great care should be taken not to brood over any
subject upon lying down, but to dispel, as soon as
possible, all intrusive ideas, especially if they are of
a painful nature. If there is any unpleasant cir-
cumstance, such as hardness, irregularity, &c.,
connected with the bed, which tends to affect sleep,
and thus induce dreams, it must be removed.
Late reading, the use of tea or coffee shortly before
going to rest, or any thing which may stimulate the
brain, ought likewise to be avoided.

If dreaming seems to arise from any fulness of
the system, blooding and low diet will sometimes
effect a cure. Mr. Stewart, the celebrated pedes-
trian traveller, states that he never dreamed when

he lived exclusively upon vegetable food. This,

108

however, may not hold true with every one.
“ When dreams arise from a diminution of cus-
tomary stimuli, a light supper, a draught of porter,
a glass of wine, or a doze of opium, generally pre-
vent them. Habitual noises, when suspended, should
be restored.’*

In speaking of dreams representative of danger,
I may mention that there are instances of persons,
who, having determined to remember that the perils
seen in them are fallacious, have actually succeeded
in doing so, while asleep; and have thus escaped
the terrors which those imaginary dangers would
otherwise have produced. Haller relates a case
of this kind; and Mr. Dugald Stewart mentions
that the plan was successfully adopted by Dr. Reid
to get rid of the distress of those fearful visions by
which he was frequently annoyed. Whenever, in a
dream, the Doctor supposed himself on the brink of
@ precipice, or any other dangerous situation, it was
his custom to throw himself over, and thus destroy
the illusion. Dr. Beattie also relates, that at one
time he found himself in a dangerous situation upon
the parapet of a bridge. Reflecting that he was
not subject to pranks of this nature, he began to

* Rush’s Medical Inquiries,

109

fancy that it might be a dream, and determined to
pitch himself over, with the conviction that this
would restore him to his senses, which accordingly
took place.* Icould never manage to carry this
system into effect in an ordinary dream of terror,
but I have sometimes succeeded in doing so during
an attack of night-mare; and have thus very
materially mitigated the alarm produced by that
distressing sensation, This intellectual operation
may also be successfully employed to dispel the
lowness of spirits under which we often awake from
unpleasant visions, by teaching us that the depres-
sion we experience is merely the result of some
unnatural excitement in the brain. Indeed, all
kinds of melancholy, not based upon some obvious
foundation, might be mitigated or dispelled alto-
gether, could we only oppose our feelings with the
weapons of reason, and see things as they really
are, and not as they only seem to be.
a ES Oe ee ee eRe One eS
® These facts do not controvert what is elsewhere stated of a
person never being aware, during the actual process of a dream,
that he was dreaming. While the above dreams were in pro-

gress, the individuals never doubted that they were dreaming :
the doubt, and the actions consequent upon it, were after-oper-

ations.

CHAPTER IV.

PROPHETIC POWER OF DREAMS.

nr

Dreams have been looked upon by some, as
the occasional means of giving us an insight into
futurity. This opinion is so singularly unphiloso-
phical, that I would not have noticed it, were it not
advocated even by persons of good sense and educa-
tion. In ancient times, it was so common as to
obtain universal belief; and the greatest men placed
as implicit faith in it as in any fact of which their
own senses afforded them cognizance. That it is
wholly erroneous, however, cannot be doubted; and
any person who examines the nature of the human
mind, and the manner in which it operates in dreams,
must be convinced, that under no circumstances,

except those of a miracle, in which the ordinary

111

laws of nature are triumphed over, can such an
event ever take place. The Sacred Writings testify
that miracles were common in former times; but
I believe no man of sane mind will contend that
they ever occur in the present state of the world.
In judging of things as now constituted, we must
discard supernatural influence altogether, and esti-
mate events according to the general laws which
the Great Ruler of Nature has appointed for the
guidance of the universe. If, in the present day, it
were possible to conceive a suspension of these
laws, it must, as in former ages, be in reference to
some great event, and to serve some mighty pur-
pose connected with the general interests of the
human race ; but if faith is to be placed in modern
miracles, we must suppose that God suspended the
above laws for the most trivial and useless of pur-
poses—as, for instance, to intimate to a man that
his grandmother will die on a particular day, that
a favourite mare has broke her neck, that he has
received a present of a brace of game, or that a
certain friend will step in and take pot-luck with
him on the morrow.

At the same time, there can be no doubt that
many circumstances occurring in our dreams have

been actually verified; but this must be regarded as

112

altogether the effect of chance; and for one dream
which turns out to be true, at least a thousand are
false. In fact, it is only when they are of the former
description, that we take any notice of them; the
latter are looked upon as mere idle vagaries, and
speedily forgotten. Ifa man, for instance, dreams
that he has gained a law-suit in which he is engaged,
and if this circumstance actually takes place, there
is nothing at all extraordinary in the coincidence:
his mind was full of the subject, and, in sleep,
naturally resolved itself into that train of ideas in
which it was most deeply interested. Or if we
have a friend engaged in war, our fears for his
safety will lead us to dream of death or captivity,
and we may see him pent up in a hostile prison-
house, or lying dead upon the battle plain. And
should these melancholy catastrophes ensue we
call our vision to memory; and, in the excited state
of mind into which we are thrown, are apt to con-
sider it as a prophetic warning, indicative of dis-
aster. The following is a very good illustration of
this particular point.

Miss M

shire, was deeply in love with an officer who ac-

, a young lady, a native of Ross-

companied Sir John Moore in the Peninsular war.

The constant danger to which he was exposed, had

1138

an evident effect upon her spirits. She became pale
and melancholy in perpetually brooding over his
fortunes; and, in spite of all that reason could do,
felt a certain conviction, that when she last parted
with her lover, she had parted with him for ever.
In vain was every scheme tried to dispel from her
mind the awful idea: in vain were all the sights
which opulence could command, unfolded before her
eyes. In the midst of pomp and gaiety, when music
and laughter echoed around her, she walked as a
pensive phantom, over whose head some dreadful
and mysterious influence hung. She was brought
by her affectionate parents to Edinburgh, and
introduced into all the gaiety of that metropolis, but
nothing could restore her, or banish from her mind
the insupportable load which oppressed it. The
song and the dance were tried in vain: they only
ageravated her distress, and made the bitterness of
despair more poignant. In a surprisingly short
period, her graceful form declined into all the appal-
ling characteristics of a fatal illness ; and she seemed
rapidly hastening to the grave, when a dream con-
firmed the horrors she had long anticipated, and
gave the finishing stroke to her sorrows. One
night, after falling asleep, she imagined she saw her

lover, pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast, enter

114

her apartment. He drew aside the curtains of the
bed, and with a look of the utmost mildness, in-
formed her that he had been slain in battle, desir-
ing her, at the same time, to comfort herself, and
not take his death too seriously to heart. It is
needless to say what influence this vision had upon
a mind so replete with woe. Jt withered it entirely,
and the unfortanate girl died a few days thereafter,
but not without desiring her parents to note down
the day of the month on which it happened, and see
if it would be confirmed, as she confidently declared
it would. Her anticipation was correct, for ac-
counts were shortly after received that the young
man was slain at the battle of Corunna, which was
fought on the very day, on the night of which his
mistress had beheld the vision.

This relation, which may be confidently relied
upon, is one of the most striking examples of
identity between the dream and the real circum-
stances with which I am acquainted, but it must be
looked upon as merely accidental. The lady’s mind
was deeply interested in the fate of her lover, and
full of that event which she most deeply dreaded—
his death. The time of this occurrence, as coincid-
ing with her dream, is certainly curious; but still
there is nothing in it which can justify us in refer-

*

115

ring it to any other origin than chance. The fol-
lowing events, which occurred to myself, in August
1821, are almost equally remarkable, and are im-
putable to the same fortuitous cause.

I was then in Caithness, when I dreamed that a
near relation of my own, residing three hundred
miles off, had suddenly died: and immediately
_ thereafter awoke in a state of inconceivable terror,
similar to that produced by a paroxysm of nighte
mare. ‘The same day, happening to be writing
home, I mentioned the circumstance in a half-jesting,
half-earnest way. To tell the truth, I was afraid
to be serious, lest I should be laughed at for putting
any faith in dreams. However, in the interval
between writing and receiving an answer, I remained
in a state of most unpleasant suspense. I felt a
presentiment that something dreadful had happened,
or would happen; and although I could not help
blaming myself for a childish weakness in so feel-
ing, I was unable to get rid of the painful idea
which had taken such rooted possession of my
mind. Three days after sending away the letter,
what was my astonishment when I received one
written the day subsequent to mine, and stating
that the relative of whom I had dreamed, had been

struck with a fatal shock of palsy the day before—

116

viz. the very day on the morning of which I had
beheld the appearance in my dream! My friends
received my letter two days after sending their
own away, and were naturally astonished at the
circumstance. I may state that my relation was in
perfect health before the fatal event took place.
It came upon him like a thunderbolt, at a period
when no one could have the slightest anticipation
of danger.

The following case will interest the reader, both
on its own account, and from the remarkable coin-
cidence between the dream and the succeeding cala-
mity; but, like all other instances of the kind, this
also must be referred to chance.

“ Being in company the other day, when the
conversation turned upon dreams, I related one,
which, as it happened to my own father, I can answer
for the perfect truth of it. About the year 1731,
my father, Mr. D. of K -, in the County of Cum-

berland, came to Edinburgh to attend the classes,
having the advantage of an uncle in the regiment
then in the Castle, and remained under the protec-
tion of his uncle and aunt, Major and Mrs. Griffiths,
during the winter. When spring arrived, Mr. D.
and three or four young gentlemen from England,

(his intimates,) made parties to visit all the neigh-

dW?
bouring places about Edinburgh, Roslin, Arthur's

Seat, Craig-Millar, &c., &c. Coming home one even-
ing from some of those places, Mr. D. said, , We
have made a party to go a-fishing to Inch-Keith
to-morrow, if the morning is fine, and have bespoke
our boat ; we shall be off at six ;’ no objection being
made, they separated for the night.

‘«¢ Mrs. Griffiths, had not been long asleep, till she
screamed out in the most violent agitated manner,
¢ The boat is sinking; save, oh, save them!’ The
Major awaked her, and said, ‘ Were you uneasy
about the fishing party?’ ‘Ohno,’ said she, ‘ I had
not once thought of it.’ She then composed herself,
and soon fell asleep again: in about an hour, she
cried out in a dreadful fright, ‘ I see the boat is
going down. The Major again awoke her, and she
said, ‘ It has been owing to the other dream I had;
for J feel no uneasiness about it. After some con-
versation, they both fell sound asleep, but no rest
could be obtained for her; in the most extreme
agony, she again screamed, ‘ They are gone; the
boat is sunk!’ When the Major awakened her,
she said, ‘ Now I cannot rest; Mr. D. must not go,
for I feel, should he go, I would be miserable till
his return; the thoughts of it would almost kill me.’

« She instantly arose, threw on her wrapping-

118

gown, went to his bed-side, for his room was next their
own, and with great difficulty she got his promise
to remain at home. <‘ But what am I to say to my
young friends whom I was to meet at Leith at six
o'clock?’ ‘¢ With great truth you may say your
Mitte 4 is ill, for I am so at present; consider, you
are an only son, under our protection, and should
any thing happen to you, it would be my death.’
Mr. D. immediately wrote a note to his friends,
saying he was prevented from joining them, and sent
his servant with it to Leith. The morning came
in most beautifully, and continued so till three
o'clock, when a violent storm arose, and in an
instant the boat, and all that were in it, went to the
bottom, and were never heard of, nor was any part
of it ever seen.” *

Kqually singular is the following case, from the
“ Memoirs of Lady Fanshawe.”

“ My mother being sick to death of a fever,
three months after I was born, which was the occa-
sion she gave me suck no longer, her friends and
servants thought to all outward appearance she was
dead, and so lay almost two days and a night ; but

Dr. Winston coming to comfort my father, went into

* «“ Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,” vol. xix. p, 73.

119

my mother’s room, and looking earnestly on her face,
said, ‘ She was so handsome, and now looks so lovely,
I cannot think she is dead; and suddenly took a
lancet out of his pocket, and with it cut the sole of
her foot, which bled. Upon this, he immediately
caused her to be laid upon the bed again, and to be
rubbed, and such means, as she came to life, and
| opening her eyes, saw two of her kinswomen stand
by her, my Lady Knollys and my Lady Russell,
both with great wide sleeves, as the fashion then
was, and said, ‘Did not you promise me fifteen
years, and are you come again?’ which they not
understanding, persuaded her to keep her spirits
quiet in that great weakness wherein she then was;
but some hours after, she desired my father and
Dr. Howlsworth might be left alone with her, to
whom she said, ‘I will acquaint you, that during
the time of my trance I was in great quiet, but na
place I could neither distinguish nor describe; but
the sense of leaving my girl, who is dearer to me
than all my children, remained a trouble upon my
spirits. Suddenly I saw two by me, clothed in long
white garments, and methought I fell down upon my
face upon the dust; and they asked why I was so
troubled in so great happiness. I replied, O let me
have the same grant given to Hezekiah, that I may

(

120

live fifteen years to see my daughter a woman: to
which they answered, It is done: and then, at that
instant, I awoke out of my trance!’ and Dr. Howls-
worth did there affirm, that that day she died made
just fifteen years from that time.”

A sufficiently striking instance of such coinci-
dence occurs in the case of Dr. Donne, the meta-
physical poet; but I believe that, in this case, it was
a spectral illusion rather than a common dream.
Two days after he had arrived in Paris, he was
left’ alone in a room where he had been dining
with Sir Robert Drury and a few companions.
“ Sir Robert returned about an hour afterwards.
He found his friend in a state of ecstacy, and
so altered in his countenance, that he could not
look upon him without amazement. The Doctor
was not able for some time to answer the question,
what had befallen him ?2—but after a long and per-
plexed pause, at last said, ‘I have seen a dreadful
vision since I saw you ;—I have seen my dear wife
pass twice by me through this room, with her hair
hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child
in her arms. This I have seen since I saw you.’
To which Sir Robert answered, ‘Sure, Sir, you
have slept since I went out; and this is the result

of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to

121

forget, for you are now awake.’ Donne replied,
‘I cannot be more sure that I now live, than that
I have not slept since I saw you; and am as sure
that at her second appearing she stopped, looked
me in the face and vanished.’”* It is certainly very
curious that Mrs. Donne, who was then in England,
was at this time sick in bed, and had been delivered
of a dead child, on the same day, and about the
same hour, that the vision occurred. There were
distressing circumstances in the marriage of Dr.
Donne which account for his mind being strongly
impressed with the image of his wife, to whom he
was exceedingly attached ; but these do not render
the coincidence above related less remarkable.

I do not doubt that the apparition of Julius
Cesar, which appeared to Brutus, and declared it
would meet him at Philippi, was either a dream or
a spectral illusion—probably the latter. Brutus, in
all likelihood, had some idea that the battle which
was to decide his fate would be fought at Philippi :
probably it was a good military position, which he
had fixed upon as a fit place to make a final stand ;
and he had done enough to Cesar to account for his
own mind being painfully and constantly engrossed
with the image of the assassinated Dictator. Hence
* Hibbert’s Philosophy of Apparitions, p- 354,

g

122

the verification of this supposed warning—hence the
easy explanation of a supposed supernatural event.

At Newark-upon-Trent, acurious custom, founded
upon the preservation of Alderman Clay and his
family by a dream, has prevailed since the days of
Cromwell. Onthe 11th March, every year, penny-
loaves are given away to any one who chooses to
appear at the Town Hall and apply for them, in
commemoration of the Alderman’s deliverance,
during the siege of Newark by the Parliamentary
forces. This gentleman, by will, dated 11th De-
cember, 1694, gave to the Mayor and Aldermen
one hundred pounds, the interest of which was to
be given to the Vicar yearly, on condition of his
preaching an annual sermon. Another hundred
pounds were also appropriated for the behoof of
the poor, in the way above-mentioned. The origin
of this bequest is singular. . During the bombard-
ment of Newark by Oliver Cromwell’s forces, the
Alderman dreamed three nights successively that
his house had taken fire, which produced such a
vivid impression upon his mind, that he and his
family left it; and in a few days the circumstances
of his vision actually took place, by the house being
burned down by the besiegers.

Dr, Abercrombie relates the case of a gentleman

123
in Edinburgh, who was affected with an aneurism
of the popliteal artery, for which he was under the
care of two eminent surgeons. About two days
before the time appointed for the operation, his
wife dreamed that a change had taken place in the
disease, in consequence of which an operation would
not be required. “On examining the tumour in
the morning, the gentleman was astonished to find
that the pulsation had entirely ceased; and, in short,
this turned out to be a spontaneous cure. To per-
sons not professional, it may be right to mention
that the cure of popliteal aneurism, without an
operation, is a very uncommon occurrence, not
happening, perhaps, in one out of numerous in-
stances, and never to be looked upon as probable
in any individual case. It is likely, however, that
the lady had heard of the possibility of such a ter-
mination, and that her anxiety had very naturally
embodied this into a dream: the fulfilment of it, at
the very time when the event took place, is cer-
tainly a very remarkable coincidence.”*

Persons are said to have had the period of their
own death pointed out to them in dreams. I have
often heard the case of the late Mr. M. of D

* Abercrombie’s Inquiries concerning the Intellectual Powers,
p- 282, Ist edit.

124

related in support of this statement. It is certainly
worth telling, not on account of any supernatural
character belonging to it, but simply from the ex-
traordinary coincidence between the dream and the
subsequent event. This gentleman dreamed one
night that he was out riding, when he stopped at
an inn on the road-side for refreshment, where he
saw several people whom he had known some years
before, but who were all dead. He was received
kindly by them, and desired to sit down and drink,
which he accordingly did. On quitting this strange
company, they exacted a promise from him that he
would visit them that day six weeks. This he pro-
mised faithfully to do; and, bidding them farewell,
he rode homewards. Such was the substance of
his dream, which he related in a jocular way to his
friends, but thought no more about it, for he was a
person above all kind of superstition. The event,
however, was certainly curious enough, as well as
melancholy; for on that very day six weeks on
which he had engaged to meet his friends at the
inn, he was killed in attempting to spring his horse
over a five-barred gate. The famous case of Lord

Lyttleton * is also cited as an example of a similar

* « Of late it has been said and published, that the unfortu-
nate nobleman had previously determined to take poison, and

125

kind, but with less show of reason, for this case is
now very generally supposed to be an imposition; and
so will almost every other of the same kind, if nar-
rowly investigated. At the same time, I do not
mean to doubt that such an event, foretold in a
dream, may occasionally come to pass; but I would
refer the whole to fortuitous coincidence. Men
dream, every now and then, that they will die ona
certain day, yet how seldom do we see those pre-
dictions fulfilled by the result! In very delicate
people, indeed, such a visionary communication, by
acting fatally upon the mind, might be the means
of occasioning its own fulfilment. In such cases, it
has been customary for the friends of the individual
to put back the clock an hour or two, so as to let
the fatal period pass by without his being aware of
it; and as soon as it was fairly passed, to inform
him of the circumstance, and Jaugh him out of hig
apprehension.

There is another way in which the apparent ful-

of course, had it in his own power to ascertain the execution of the
prediction. It was, no doubt, singular that a man, who medi-
tated his exit from the world, should have chosen to play such
a trick upon his friends. But it is still more credible that a
whimsical man should do so wild a thing, than that a messenger
should be sent from the dead, to tell a libertine at what precise
hour he should expire.”—~Scott’s Letters on Demonology, p. 361.

126

filment of a dream may be brought about. A good
illustration in point is given by Mr. Combe. The
subject of it was one Scott, executed in 1823, at
Jedburgh, for murder. “It is stated in his life, that,
some years before the fatal event, he had dreamed
that he had committed a murder, and was greatly im-
pressed with the idea. He frequently spoke of it,
and recurred to it as something ominous, till at last
it was realized. The organ of Destructiveness was
large in his head, and so active that he was an en-
thusiast in poaching, and prone to outrage and
violence in his habitual conduct. This activity of
the organ might take place during sleep, and then
it would inspire his mind with destructive feelings,
and the dream of murder would be the corssequence.
From the great natural strength of the propensity,
he probably may have felt, when awake, an inward
tendency to this crime; and, joining this and the
dream together, we can easily account for the
strong impression left by the latter on his mind.”*
One method in which death may appear to be
foretold is, by the accession ef frightful visions.
immediately before fatal illnesses. This, how-

ever, goes for nothing in the way of argument,

* Combe’s System of Phrenology, p. 511, 3d edit.

127

for it was the state of the system shortly be-
fore the attack of disease which induced such
dreams. According to Silimachus, the epidemic
fever which prevailed at Rome was ushered in by
attacks of night-mare; and Sylvius Deleboe, who
describes the epidemic which raged at Leyden in
1669, states, that previous to each paroxysm of the
fever, the patient fell asleep, and suffered a severe
attack of night-mare. The vulgar belief, therefore,
that unpleasant dreams are ominous of death, is not
destitute of foundation; but the cause why they
should be so is perfectly natural. It is the inci-
pient disease which produces the dreams, and the
fatal event which often follows, is a natural conse-
quence of that disease.

It is undoubtedly owing to the faculty pos-
sessed by sleep, of renewing long-forgotten ideas,
that persons have had important facts com-
municated to them in dreams, There have been
instances, for example, where valuable documents,
sums of money, &c., have been concealed, and where
either the person who secreted them, or he who
had the place of their concealment communicated
to him, may have forgotten every thing therewith
connected. He may then torture his mind in vain,

during the waking state, to recollect the event;

128

and it may be brought to his remembrance, at once,
inadream. In such cases, an apparition is gener-
ally the medium through which the seemingly
mysterious knowledge is communicated. The ima-
gination conjures up some phantom that discloses the
secret; which circumstance, proceeding, in reality,
from a simple operation of the mind, is straightway
converted into something supernatural, and invested
with all the attributes of wonder and awe. When
such spectral forms appear, and communicate some
fact which turns out to be founded on truth, the
person is not always aware that the whole occurred
im a dream, but often fancies that he was broad
awake when the apparition appeared to him and
communicated the particular intelligence. When
we hear, therefore, of hidden treasures, wills,
&e., being disclosed in such a manner, we are
not always to scout the report as false. The
spectre divulging the intelligence was certainly the
mere chimera of the dreamer’s brain, but the facts
revealed, apparently by this phantom, may, from
the above circumstance, be substantially true. The
following curious case is strikingly in point, and is
given by Sir Walter Scott in his notes to the new
edition of “ The Antiquary.”

“«Mr.R d of Bowland, a gentleman of landed

129

property in the Vale of Gala, was prosecuted for a
very considerable sum, the accumulated arrears of
teind, (or tithe,) for which he was said to be
indebted to a noble family, the titulars (lay impro-
priators of the tithes). Mr. R d was strongly
impressed with the belief that his father had, by a

form of process peculiar to the law of Scotland,
purchased these lands from the titular, and, there-
fore, that the present prosecution was groundless.
But after an industrious search among his father’s
papers, an investigation of the public records, and
a careful inquiry among all persons who had trans-
acted law business for his father, no evidence could
* be recovered to support his defence. The period
was now near at hand when he conceived the loss
of his law-suit to be inevitable, and he had formed
the determination to ride to Edinburgh next day,
and make the best bargain he could in the way of
compromise. He went to bed with this resolution,
and, with all the circumstances of the case floating
upon his mind, had a dream to the following pur-
pose. His father, who had been many years dead,
appeared to him, he thought, and asked him why
he was disturbed in his mind. In dreams, men are
d
thought that he informed his father of the cause of
a2

not surprised at such apparitions. Mr. R

130

his distress, adding, that the payment of a consider-
able sum of money was the more unpleasant to him,
because he had a strong consciousness that it was
not due, though he was unable to recover any
evidence in support of his belief. ‘ You are right,
my son,’ replied the paternal shade; ‘ I did acquire
right to these teinds, for payment of which you are

now prosecuted. The papers relating to the trans-

action are in the hands of Mr. » & writer,
(or attorney, ) who is now retired from professional
business, and resides at Inveresk, near Edinburgh.
He was a person whom I employed on that occasion
for a particular reason, but who never on any other

occasion transacted business on my account. It is

very possible,’ pursued the vision, ‘ that Mr.
may have forgotten a matter which is now of a very
old date; but you may call it to his recollection by
this token, that when I came to pay his account,
there was difficulty in getting change for a Portugal
piece of gold, and we were forced to drink out the
balance at a tavern.’

“Mr. R

the words of the vision imprinted on his mind, and

d awoke in the morning with all

thought it worth while to walk across the country
to Inveresk, instead of going straight to Edinburgh.

When he came there, he waited on the gentleman

131

wv

mentioned in the dream, a very old man. Without
saying any thing of the vision, he inquired whether
he remembered having conducted such a matter for
his deceased father. The old gentleman could not
at first bring the circumstance to his recollection,
but on mention of the Portugal piece of gold, the
whole returned upon his memory; he made an im-
mediate search for the papers, and recovered them
—so that Mr. R——d carried to Edinburgh the

documents necessary to gain the cause which he

was on the verge of losing.

“The author has often heard this story told by
persons who had the best access to know the facts,
who were not likely themselves to be deceived, and
were certainly incapable of deception. He cannot,
therefore, refuse to give it credit, however extra-
ordinary the circumstances may appear, The cir-
cumstantial character of the information given in
the dream, takes it out of the general class of
impressions of the kind, which are occasioned by
the fortuitous coincidence of actual events with our
sleeping thoughts. On the other hand, few will
suppose that the laws of nature were suspended,
and a special communication from the dead to the
living permitted, for the purpose of saving Mr.

R

da certain number of hundred pounds. The

182

author’s theory is, that the dream was only the re-
capitulation of information which Mr. R d had
really received from his father while in life, but
which at first he merely recalled as a general im-

pression that the claim was settled. It is not un-

common for persons to recover, during sleep, the
thread of ideas which they have lost during their
waking hours. It may be added, that this remark-
able circumstance was attended with bad conse-

quences to Mr. R

d; whose health and spirits
were afterwards impaired, by the attention which
he thought himself obliged to pay to the visions of
the night.” This result is a melancholy proof of
the effect sometimes produced by ignorance of
natural laws. Had Mr. R

with the nature of the brain, and of the manner in

d been acquainted

which it is affected in sleep, the circumstance above
related would have given him no annoyance. He
would have traced the whole chain of events to
their true source; but, being ignorant of this, he
became the victim of superstition, and his life was

rendered miserable.

CHAPTER V.

NIGHT-MARE,

Nicut-mare may be defined a painful dream,
accompanied with difficult respiratory action, and a
torpor in the powers of volition. The reflecting
organs are generally more or less awake; and, in
this respect, night-mare differs from simple dream-
ing where they are mostly quiescent.

This affection, the ErHiauLtTes of the Greeks,
and Incusus of the Romans, is one of the most
distressing to which human nature is subject.
Imagination cannot .conceive the horrors it fre-
quently gives rise to, or language describe them in
adequate terms. They are a thousand times more
frightful than the visions conjured up by necro-
mancy or diablerie ; and far transcend every thing

134

in history or romance, from the fable of the writh-
ing and asp-encircled Laocoon to Dante’s appalling
picture of Ugolino and his famished offspring, or
the hidden tortures of the Spanish Inquisition.
The whole mind, during the paroxysm, is wrought
up to a pitch of unutterable despair: a spell is laid
upon the faculties, which freezes them into inac-
tion; and the wretched victim feels as if pent alive
in his coffin, or overpowered by resistless and im-
mitigable pressure.

The modifications which night-mare assumes are
infinite; but one passion is almost never absent—
that of utter and incomprehensible dread. Some-
times the sufferer is buried beneath overwhelming
rocks, which crush him on all sides, but still leave
him with a miserable consciousness of his situation.
Sometimes he is involved in the coils of a horrid,
slimy monster, whose eyes have the phosphorescent
glare of the sepulchre, and whose breath is poison-
ous as the marsh of Lerna. Every thing horrible,
disgusting, or terrific in the physical or moral
world, is brought before him in fearful array; he is
hissed at by serpents, tortured by demons, stunned
by the hollow voices and cold touch of apparitions.
A mighty stone is laid upon his breast, and crushes

him to the ground in helpless agony: mad bulls and

135

tigers pursue his palsied footsteps: the unearthly
shrieks and gibberish of hags, witches and fiends
float around him. In whatever situation he may be
placed, he feels superlatively wretched: he is Ixion
working for ages at. his wheel: he is Sisyphus
rolling his eternal stone: he is stretched upon the
iron bed of Procrustes: he is prostrated by imevi-
table destiny beneath the approaching wheels of the
car of Juggernaut. At one moment, he may have
the consciousness of a malignant demon being at his
side: then, to shun the sight of so appalling an ob-
ject, he will close his eyes, but still the fearful being
makes its presence known; for its icy breath is felt
diffusing itself over his visage, and he knows that
he is face to face with a fiend. Then, if he look
up, he beholds horrid eyes glaring upon him, and
an aspect of hell grinning at him with even more
than hellish malice. Or, he may have the idea of
a monstrous hag squatted upon his breast—mute,
motionless and malignant; an incarnation of the
Evil Spirit—whose intolerable weight crushes the
breath out of his body, and whose fixed, deadly;
incessant stare petrifies him with horror and makes
his very existence insufferable.

In every instance, there is a sense of oppression

and helplessness ; and the extent to which these are

136

carried, varies according to the violence of the
paroxysm. The individual never feels himself a
free agent; on the contrary, he is spell-bound by
some enchantment, and remains an unresisting
victim for malice to work its will upon. He can
neither breathe, nor walk, nor run with his wonted
facility. If pursued by any imminent danger, he
ean hardly drag one limb after another; if engaged
in combat, his blows are utterly ineffective; if in-
volved in the fangs of any animal, or in the grasp
of an enemy, extrication is impossible. He strug-
gles, he pants, he toils, but it is all in vain: his
muscles are rebels to the will, and refuse to obey
its calls. In no case is there a sense of complete
freedom: the benumbing stupor never departs from _
him; and his whole being is lecked up in one
mighty spasm. Sometimes he is forcing himself
through an aperture too small for the reception of
his body, and is there arrested and tortured by the
pangs of suffocation produced by the pressure to
which he is exposed; or he loses his way in a nar-
row labyrinth, and gets involved in its contracted
and inextricable mazes; or he is entombed alive in
a sepulchre beside the mouldering dead. There
is, in most cases, an intense reality in ali that he

sees, or hears, or feels. The aspects of the hideous

137

phantoms which harass his imagination are bold
and defined; the sounds which greet his ear appal-
lingly distinct; and when any dimness or confusion
of imagery does prevail, it is of the most fearful
kind, leaving nothing but dreary and miserable im-
pressions behind it.

Much of the horror experienced in night-mare
will depend upon the natural activity of the ima-
gination, upon the condition of the body, and upon
the state of mental exertion before going to
sleep. If, for instance, we have been engaged in
the perusal of such works as “The Monk,” “The
Mysteries of Udolpho,” or “ Satan’s Invisible World
Discovered ;” and if an attack of night-mare should
supervene, it will be aggravated into sevenfold
horror by the spectral phantoms with which our
minds have been thereby filled. We will enter into
all the fearful mysteries of these writings, which, in-
stead of being mitigated by slumber, acquire an
intensity which they never could have possessed in
the waking state. The apparitions of murdered
victims, like the form of Banquo, which wrung the
guilty conscience of Macbeth, will stalk before us;
we are surrounded by sheeted ghosts, which glare
upon us with their cold sepulchral eyes; our habi-

tation is among the vaults of ancient cathedrals, or

138

among the dungeons of ruined monasteries, and our
companions are the dead.

At other times, an association of ludicrous images
passes through the mind: every thing becomes in-
congruous, ridiculous and absurd. But even in the
midst of such preposterous fancies, the passion of
mirth is never for one moment excited: the same
blank despair, the same freezing inertia, the same
stifling torture, still harass us; and so far from
being amused by the laughable drama enacting

before us, we behold it with sensations of undefined
horror and disgust.

In general, during an attack, the person has the
consciousness of an utter inability to express his
horror by cries. He feels that his voice is half
choked by impending suffocation, and that any
exertion of it, farther than a deep sigh or groan, is
impossible. Sometimes, however, he conceives that
he is bellowing with prodigious energy, and won-
ders that the household are not alarmed by his
noise. But this is an illusion: those outcries which
he fancies himself uttering, are merely obscure
moans, forced with difficulty and pain from the
stifled penetralia of his bosom. }

Night-mare takes place under various circum-

stances. Sometimes, from a state of perfect sleep,

139

we glide into it, and feel ourselves unconsciously
overtaken by its attendant horrors: at other times,
we experience it stealing upon us like a thief at a
period when we are all but awake, and aware of its
approach. We have then our senses about us,
only, perhaps, a little deadened and confused by
incipient slumber ; and we feel the gradual advance
of the fiend, without arousing ourselves, and scaring
him away, although we appear to possess the full
ability of doing so. Some persons, immediately
previous to an attack, have sensations of vertigo
and ringing in the ears.

At one time, night-mare melts into unbroken
sleep, or pleasing dreams; and we awake in
the morning with merely the remembrance of
having had one of its attacks: at another, it
arouses us by its violence, and we start out of it
with a convulsive shudder. At the moment of
throwing off the fit, we seem to turn round upon
the side with a mighty effort, as if from beneath
the pressure of a superincumbent weight; and, the
more thoroughly to awake ourselves, we generally
kick violently, beat the breast, rise up in bed, and
ery out once or twice. As soon as we are able to exer-
cise the voice or voluntary muscles with freedom, the

paroxysm is at an end; but, for some time after, we

140

experience extreme terror, and often cold shivering,
while the heart throbs violently, and the respiration
is hurried. These two latter circumstances are
doubted by Dr. Darwin, but I am convinced of
their existence, both from what I have experienced
in my own person, and from what I have been told
by others: indeed, analogy would irresistibly lead
us to conclude that they must exist; and whoever
carefully investigates the subject, will find that
they do almost universally.

An opinion prevails, that during incubus the per-
son is always upon his back; and the circumstance
of his usually feeling as if in that posture, together
with the relief which he experiences on turning
round upon his side, are certainly strong presump-
tions in favour of its accuracy. The sensations,
however, which occur, in this state, are fallacious
in the highest degree. We have seldom any evi-
dence either that he was on his back, or that he
turned round at all. The fact, that he supposed
himself in the above position during the fit, and the
other fact, that, on recovering from it, he was lying
on his side, may have produced the illusion; and,
where he never moved a single muscle, he may con-
ceive that he turned round after a prodigious
effort. I have had an attack of this disorder while

14]

sitting in an arm-chair, or with my head leaning
against a table. In fact, these are the most likely
positions to bring it on, the lungs being then more
completely compressed than in almost any other pos-
ture. I have also had it most distinctly while lying
on the side, and I know many cases of a similar
description in others. Although, therefore, night-
mare may take place more frequently upon the
back than upon the side, the opinion that it
occurs only in the former of these postures, is
altogether incorrect ; and where we are much ad-
dicted to its attacks, no posture whatever will pro-
tect us. .

Persons not particularly subject to incubus, feel
no inconvenience, save temporary terror or fatigue,
from any occasional attack which they may have ;
but those with whom it is habitual, are apt to ex-
perience a certain degree of giddiness, ringing in
the ears, tension of the forehead, flashing of light
before the eyes, and other symptoms of cerebral
congestion. A bad taste in the mouth, and more or
less fulness about the pit of the stomach, are some-
times experienced after an attack.

The illusions which occur, are perhaps the most
extraordinary phenomena of night-mare; and so

strongly are they often impressed upon the mind,

142

that, even on awaking, we find it impossible not to
believe them real. We may, for example, be sen-
sible of knockings at the door of our apartment,
hear familiar voices calling upon us, and see individ-
uals passing through the chamber. In many cases,
no arguments, no efforts of the understanding will
convince us that these are merely the chimeras of
sleep. We regard them as events of actual occur-
rence, and will not be persuaded to the contrary.
With some, such a belief has gone down to the
grave: and others have maintained it strenuously
for years, till a recurrence of the illusions, under
circumstances which rendered their real existence
impossible, has shown them that the whole was a
dream. Many a good ghost story has had its
source in the illusions of night-mare.

The following case, related by Mr. Waller, gives
a good idea of the strength of such illusive feelings.

«In the month of February, 1814, I was living ©
in the same house with a young gentleman, the son
of a peer of the United Kingdom, who was at that
time under my care, in a very alarming state of
health; and who had been, for several days, in a
state of violent delirium. The close attention which
his case required from me, together with a degree

of personal attachment to him, had rendered me

143

extremely anxious about him; and as my usual
hours of sleep suffered a great degree of interrup-
tion from the attendance given to him, I was, from
that cause alone, rendered more than usually liable
to the attacks of night-mare, which consequently
intruded itself every night upon my slumbers. The
young gentleman in question, from the violence of
his delirium, was with great difficulty kept in bed;
and had once or twice eluded the vigilance of his
attendants, and jumped out of bed; an accident of
which I was every moment dreading a repetition. I
awoke from my sleep one morning about four
o’clock—at least it appeared to me that I awoke—and
heard distinctly the voice of this young gentleman,
who seemed to be coming hastily up the stairs lead-
ing to my apartment, calling me by name, in the
manner he was accustomed to do in his delirium;
and immediately after, I saw him standing by my
bed-side, holding the curtains open, expressing all
that wildness in his looks which accompanies violent
delirium. At the same moment, I heard the voices
of his two attendants coming up the stairs in search
of him, who likewise came into the room and took
him away. During all this scene I was attempting
to speak, but could not articulate; I thought, how-

ever, that I succeeded in attempting to get out of

144

bed, and assisting his attendants in removing him
out of the room; after which, I returned to bed,
and instantly fell asleep. When I waited upon my
patient in the morning, I was not a little surprised
to find that he was asleep; and was utterly con-
founded on being told that he had been so all
night; and as this was the first sleep he had en-
joyed for three or four days, the attendants were
very minute in detailing the whole particulars of
it. Although this account appeared inconsistent
with what I conceived I had seen, and with what
I concluded they knew as well as myself, I did not,
for some time, perceive the error into which I had
been led, till I observed that some of my questions
and remarks were not intelligible; then I began to
suspect the true source of the error, which I should
never have discovered, had not experience rendered
those hallucinations familiar to me. But the whole
of this transaction had so much consistency and
probability in it, that I might, under different cir-
cumstances, have remained for ever ignorant of
having been imposed upon in this instance, by my

senses. *

During night-mare, the deepness of the slumber

* Waller’s Treatise.

145

varies much at different times. Sometimes we are
in a state closely approximating upon perfect sleep;
at other times we are almost completely awake;
and it will be remarked, that the more awake we
are, the greater is the violence of the paroxysm.
I have experienced the affection stealing upon
me while in perfect possession of my faculties,
and have undergone the greatest tortures, being
haunted by spectres, hags, and every sort of phan-
tom—having, at the same time, a full consciousness
that I was labouring under incubus, and that all the
terrifying objects around me were the creations of
my own brain. This shows that the judgment is
often only very partially affected, and proves also that
night-mare is not merely a disagreeable dream, but
a painful bodily affection. Were it nothing more
than the former, we could rarely possess a know-
ledge of our condition; for, in simple visions, the re-
flecting organs are almost uniformly quiescent, and
we scarcely ever, for a moment, doubt the reality
of our impressions. In night-mare, this is often,
perhaps generally, the case; but we frequently
meet with instances, in which, during the worst
periods of the fit, consciousness remains almost un-
impaired. |

There are great differences in the duration of the

H

146

paroxysm, and also in the facility with which it is
broken. I know not of any method by which the
period to which it extends can be estimated, for the
sufferer has no data to go by, and time, as in all
modifications of dreaming, is subjected to the most
capricious laws—an actual minute often appearing
to embrace a whole hour. Of this point, therefore,
we must be contented to remain in ignorance; but
it may be conceived that the attack will be as various
in its duration, as in the characters which it assumes
—in one case being ten times as long as in another.
With regard to the breaking of the fit, the differences

are equally great. At one time, the slightest agita-

tion of the body, the opening of the chamber door, .

or calling softly to the sufferer, will arouse him;
at another, he requires to be shaken violently, and
called upon, long and loudly, before he is released.

Some people are much more prone to incubus

than others. Those whose digestion is healthy,

whose minds are at ease, and who go supperless to

bed, will seldom be troubled with it. Those, again,
who keep late hours, study hard, eat heavy sup-
pers, and are subject to bile, acid, or hypochondria,
are almost sure to be more, or less, its victims.

There are particular kinds of food, which pretty

constantly lead to the same result, such as cheese

147

cucumbers, almonds, and whatever is hard to be
digested. Hildesheim, in his “De Affectibus Ca-
pitis,” justly remarks, that «he who wishes to know
what night-mare is, let him eat chesnuts before
going to sleep, and drink feculent wine after them.”
Certain diseases, also, are apt to induce it, such
as asthma, hydrothorax, angina pectoris, and other
_ varieties of dyspncea. Men are more subject to it
than women, probably from their stomachs being
more frequently disordered by intemperance, and
their minds more closely occupied. Sailors, owing
to the hard and indigestible nature of their food,
are very frequently its victims; and it is a general
remark that it oftener occurs at sea than on shore.
It seems probable that much of the superstitious
belief of these men, in apparitions, proceeds from
the phantoms which night-mare calls into existence.
Unmarried women are more annoyed by it than
those who are married; and the latter, when preg-
nant, have it oftener than at other times. Persons
who were extremely subject to the complaint in
their youth, sometimes get rid of it when they reach
the age of puberty, owing, probably, to some change

in the constitution which occurs at this period.
There have been different opinions with re-
_ gard to the proximate cause of incubus; and authors

148

have generally looked upon it as involved in con-
siderable obscurity. An impeded circulation of
blood in the pulmonary arteries, compression of
the diaphragm by a full stomach, and torpor of
the intercostal muscles, are all mentioned as contri-
buting wholly, or partially, to the event. I am of
opinion that either of these states may cause night-
mare, but that, in most cases, they are all combined.
Any thing, in fact, which impedes respiration, may
give rise to the disorder, whether it be asthma,
hydrothorax, distended stomach, muscular torpor,
or external compression. The causes, then, are
various, but it will be found that, whatever they
may be, their ultimate operation is upon the lungs.

We have already seen that, in ordinary sleep,
particular states of the body are apt to induce
visions: it is, therefore, easily conceivable that a
sense of suffocation, such as occurs in night-
mare, may give birth to all the horrid phantoms |
seen in that distemper. The physical suffering
in such a case, exalts the imagination to its ut-
most pitch ; fills it with spectres and chimeras; and
plants an immoveable weight or malignant fiend

upon the bosom to crush us into agony. Let us
~ see how such physical suffering is brought about.

Any disordered state of the stomach may pro-

.

149

duce it. First.-This organ may be so distended
with food or wind as to press upon the diaphragm,
lessen the dimensions of the chest, obstruct the
movements of the heart, and thereby impede re-
spiration. Circumstances like these alone are suffi-
cient to produce night-mare; and the cause from
the first is purely mechanical.

Secondly.—The state of the stomach may cail
forth incubus by means more circuitous or indirect.
In this case, the viscus is unequal to the task im-
posed upon it of digesting the food, either from an
unusual quantity being thrown upon it, from the
food being of an indigestible nature, or from actual
weakness. Here the sensorial power latent in this
organ, is insufficient to carry it through with its
operations, and it is obliged to draw upon the
rest of the body—upon the brain, the respiratory
muscles, &e., for the supply of which it is deficient.
The muscles of respiration, in giving their por-
tion, reduce themselves to a state of temporary
debility, and do not retain a sufficient share to
execute their own actions with due vigour. The
pectorals, the intercostals, and the diaphragm be-
come thus paralyzed; and, the chest not being
sufficiently dilated for perfect breathing, a feel-

ing of suffocation inevitably ensues. In like man-

150

ner, the muscles of volition, rendered inert by
the subtraction of their quota of sensorial power,
are unable to exercise their functions, and remain,
during the paroxysm, in a state of immoveable
torpor. This unequal distribution of nervous energ y
continues till, by producing some excessive uneasi-
ness, it stimulates the will to a violent effort, and
breaks the fit; and so soon as this takes place, the
balance becomes redressed, and the sensorial equi-
librium restored.

Physical suffering of that kind which impedes
breathing, may also be occasioned by many other
causes—by pneumonia, by empyema, by aneurism of
the.aorta, by laryngitis, by croup, by external pres-
sure; and, accordingly, either of these may give
rise to night-mare. If we chance to lie down witha
pillow or heavy cloak upon the breast, or to sleep
with the body bent forward, and the head supported
upon a table, as already mentioned, we may be
seized with it; and, in truth, whatever, either
directly or indirectly, acts upon the respiratory
muscles, and impedes their operation, is pretty sure
to bring it on. Even a weak or disordered stomach,
in which there is no food, by attracting to itself a
portion of their sensorial power to aid its own in-

adequacies, may induce it. The disorder, there-

1d]

fore, takes place under various circumstances—
either by direct pressure upon the lungs, as in dis-
tended stomach, or hydrothorax; or by partial
torpor of the stomach or muscles of respiration,
owing to a deficiency of nervous energy. These
physical impediments coexisting with, or giving
rise to a distempered state of the brain, sufficiently
account for the horrors of night-mare.

Why are hard students, deep thinkers, and hypo-
chondriacs unusually subject to incubus? The
cause is obvious. Such individuals have often a
bad digestion: their stomachs are subject to acidity,
and other functional derangements, and, therefore,
peculiarly apt to generate the complaint. The
sedentary life, and habits of intellectual or melan-
choly reflection in which they indulge, have a ten-
dency not merely to disturb the digestive apparatus,
but to act upon the whole cerebral system: hence,
they are far more liable to dreams of every kind than
other people, in so far as their minds are more intent-
ly employed; and when, in sleep, they are pained by

any physical endurance, the activity of their mental

powers will naturally associate the most horrible
ideas with such suffering, and produce incubus, and
all its frightful accompaniments.

Night-mare is sometimes attended with danger,

152

when it becomes habitual. It may then give rise
to apoplexy, and destroy life; or, in very nervous
subjects, may occasion epileptic and _ hysterical
affections, which prove extremely harassing. Ace
eording to Ceelius Aurelianus, many people die of
this complaint. Probably, some of those who are
found dead in bed have lost their lives in a fit of
incubus, the circumstance being imputed to some
other cause. Night-mare is thus, in some cases
dangerous; and in all, when it becomes habitual,
is such a source of misery, that sleep, instead of
being courted as a period of blissful repose, is looked
upon with horror, as the appointed season of inex-
pressible suffering and dread. It becomes, on this
account, a matter of importance to contrive some
method for preventing the attacks of so distressful
a malady. The cause, whatever it may be, must,
if practicable, be removed, and the symptoms
thence arising will naturally disappear. If the dis.
order proceed from heavy suppers, or indigestible
food, these things ought to be given up, and the
person should either go supperless to bed, or with
such a light meal as will not hurt his digestion.
Salted provisions of all kinds must be abandoned,
nor should he taste any thing which will he

heavily upon the stomach, or run into fermenta-

1535

tion. For this reason, nuts, cucumbers, cheese, ham,
and fruits are all prejudicial. If he be subject to
heartburn, flatulence, and other dyspeptic symptoms,
he should make use of occasional doses of magnesia,
or carbonate of potash or soda. I have known a tea-
spoonful of either of the two latter, or three times
that quantity of the former, taken before stepping
into bed, prevent an attack, where, from the pre-
vious state of the stomach, I am convinced it
would have taken place, had those medicines not
been used. Great attention must be paid to the
state of the bowels. For this purpose, the colo-
cynth, the compound rhubarb, or the common
aloetic pill, should be made use of, in doses of
one, two, or three, according to circumstances,
till the digestive organs are brought into proper
play. The common blue pill, used with proper*
caution, is also an excellent medicine. In all
cases, the patient should take abundant exercise,
shun late hours, or too much study, and keep his
mind in as cheerful a state as possible. The bed
he lies on ought to be hard, and the pillow not
very high. When the attacks are frequent, and ex-
tremely severe, Dr. Darwin recommends that an

alarum clock might be hung up in the room, so that
H 2

154

&

the repose may be interrupted at short intervals. It
is a good plan to have another person to sleep in
the same bed, who might arouse him from the
paroxysm ; and he should be directed to lie as little
as possible upon the back.

These points comprehend the principal treatment,
and when persevered in, will rarely fail to miti-
gate or remove the disease. Sometimes, however,
owing to certain peculiarities of constitution, it may
be necessary to adopt a different plan, or com-
bine other means along with the above: thus,
Whytt, who was subject to night-mare, could only
insure himself against an attack, by taking a small
glassful of brandy just before going to bed; and
some individuals find that a light supper prevents
the fit, while it is sure to occur if no supper at all be
taken. But these are rare exceptions to the general
rule, and, when they do occur, must be treated in
that manner which experience proves most effectual,
without being bound too nicely by the ordinary
modes of cure. Blood-letting, which some writers
recommend, is useless or hurtful, except in cases
where there is reason to suppose that the affection
is brought on by plethora. With regard to the
other causes of night-mare, such as asthma, hydro-

155

thorax, &c., these must be treated on general prin-
ciples, and it, as one of their symptoms, will depar
so soon as they are removed. .

Some persons recommend opium for the cure of
night-mare, but this medicine I should think more
likely to aggravate than relieve the complaint. The
late Dr. Polydori, author of “The Vampyre,” and
of an “Essay on Positive Pleasure,’ was much
subject to incubus, and in the habit of using opium
for its removal. One morning he was found dead,
and on a table beside him stood a glass, which had
evidently contained laudanum and water. From
this, it was supposed he had killed himself by his
own treatment; but whether the quantity of lauda-
num taken by him would have destroyed life in

ordinary circumstances, has never been ascertained.

CHAPTER VI.

fe DAY-MARE,

e

I HAVE strong doubts as to the propriety of consider-
ing this affection in any way different from the incu-
bus, or night-mare. Itseems merely a modification
of the latter, only accompanied by no aberration of
the judgment. The person endures precisely many
of the same feelings, such as difficult respiration,
torpor of the voluntary muscles, deep sighing, ex-
treme terror, and inability to speak. The only
difference which seems to exist between the two
states is, that, in day-mare, the reason is always
unclouded—whereas in incubus it is generally more
or less disturbed.

Dr. Mason Good, in his “ Study of Medicine,”
takes notice of a case, recorded by Forestus, “ that

157

returned periodically every third day, like an in-
termittent fever. The patient was a girl, nine years
of age, and at these times was suddenly attacked
with great terror, a constriction of both the lower
and upper belly, with urgent difficulty of breathing.
Her eyes continued open, and were permanently
continued to one spot; with her hands she forcibly
grasped hold of things, that she might breathe the
more easily. When spoken to, she returned no
answer. In the meantime, the mind seemed to be
collected; she was without sleep; sighed repeatedly ;
the abdomen was elevated, the thorax still violently
contracted, and oppressed with laborious respira-
tion and heavy panting: she was incapable of
utterance.”

During the intensely hot summer of 1825, I
experienced an attack of day-mare. Immediately
after dining, I threw myself on my back upon a
sofa, and, before I was aware, was seized with
difficult respiration, extreme dread, and utter in-
capability of motion or speech. I could neither
move nor cry, while the breath came from my chest
in broken and suffocating paroxysms. During all
this time, I was perfectly awake; I saw the light
glaring in at the windows in broad sultry streams ;

I felt the intense heat of the day pervading my

158

frame; and heard distinctly the different noises in
the street, and even the ticking of my own watch,
which I had placed on the cushion beside me. I
had, at the same time, the consciousness of flies
buzzing around, and settling with annoying perti-
nacity upon my face. During the whole fit, judg-
ment was never for a moment suspended. I felt
assured that I laboured under a species of incubus.
I even endeavoured to reason myself out of the feel-
ing of dread which filled my mind, and longed with
insufferable ardour for some one to open the door,
and dissolve the spell which bound me in its fetters.
The fit did not continue above five minutes: by
degrees I recovered the use of speech and motion;
and as soon as they were so far restored as to
enable me to call out and move my limbs, it wore
insensibly away.

Upon the whole, I consider day-mare and night-
mare identical. They proceed from the same causes,

and must be treated in a similar manner.

<0 Se

CHAPTER VII.

SLEEP-WALKING.

woes

In simple dreaming, as I have already stated,
some of the cerebral organs are awake, while others
continue in the quiescence of sleep. Such, also, is
the case in somnambulism, but with this addition,
that the dream is of so forcible a nature as to
stimulate into action the muscular system as well
as, In most cases, one or more of the organs of the
senses. If we dream that we are walking, and
the vision possesses such a degree of vividness and
exciting energy as to arouse the muscles of locomo-
tion, we naturally get up and walk. Should we
dream that we hear or see, and the impression be
so vivid as to stimulate the eyes and ears, or, more
properly speaking, those parts of the brain which

160

take cognizance of sights and sounds, then we both
see any objects, or hear any sounds, which may occur,
just as if we were awake. In some cases, the
muscles only are excited, and then we simply walk,
without either seeing or hearing. In others, both
the muscles and organs of sight are stimulated, and
we not only walk but have the use of our eyes.
In a third variety, the activity of hearing is added,
and we both walk, and see, and hear. Should the
senses of smell, taste, and touch be stimulated into
activity, and relieved from the torpor into which
they were thrown by sleep, we have them also
brought into operation. If, to all this, we add an
active state of the organs of speech, inducing us to
talk, we are then brought as nearly, as the slumber-
ing state admits, into the condition of perfect wake-
fulness. The following passage from Dr. Mason
Good will illustrate some of the foregoing points
more fully.

“ Tf,” observes he, “the external organ of sense
thus stimulated be that of sight, the dreamer may
perceive objects around him, and be able to dis-
tinguish them: and if the tenor of the dreaming ideas
should as powerfully operate upon the muscles of
locomotion, these also may be thrown into their ac-

customed state of action, and he may rise from his

161

bed, and make his way to whatever place the drift
of his dream may direct him, with perfect ease, and
free from danger. He will see more or less dis-
tinctly, in proportion as the organ of sight is more
or less awake: yet, from the increased exhaustion,
and, of course, increased torpor of the other organs,
in consequence of an increased demand of sensorial
power from the common stock, to supply the action
of the sense and muscles immediately engaged,
every other sense will probably be thrown into a
deeper sleep or torpor than if the whole had been
quiescent. Hence, the ears may not be roused
even by a sound that might otherwise awake the
sleeper. He may be insensible not only to a slight
touch, but a severe shaking of the limbs; and may
even cough violently, without being recalled from
his dream. Having accomplished the object of his
visionary pursuit, he may safely return, even over
the most dangerous precipices—for he sees them
distinctly—to his bed ; and the organ of sight being
now quite exhausted, or there being no longer any
occasion for its use, it may once more associate in
the general inactivity, and the dream take a new
turn, and consist of a new combination of images.” *

I suspect that sleep-walking is sometimes here-

* Good’s Study of Medicine, vol. iv. p. 175, 3d edit.

162

ditary, at least I have known instances which gave
countenance to such a supposition. Its victims are
generally pale, nervous, irritable persons ; and it is
remarked that they are subject, without any ap-
parent cause, to frequent attacks of cold perspira-
tion. Somnambulism, I have had occasion to re-
mark, is very common among children; and I believe
that it more frequently affects childhood than any
other age. In females, it sometimes arises from
amenorrheea; and any source of bodily or mental
irritation may produce it. It is a curious, and not
easily explained fact, that the aged, though they
dream more than the middle-aged, are less addicted
to somnambulism and sleep-talking. Indeed, these
phenomena are seldom noticed in old people.

It has been matter of surprise to many, that
somnambulists often get into the most dangerous
situations without experiencing terror. But the
explanation of this ought not to be attended with
any real difficulty; for we must reflect, that alarm
cannot be felt unless we apprehend danger, and that
the latter, however great it may be, cannot excite
emotion of any kind, so long.as we are ignorant of
its existence. This is the situation in which sleep-
walkers, in a great majority of cases, stand. The

reasoning faculties, which point out the existence

163

of danger, are generally in a state of complete slum-
ber, and unable to produce corresponding emo-
tions in the mind. Andeven if danger should be
perceived by a sleep-walker and avoided, as is some-
times the case, his want of terror is to be imputed to
a quiescent state of the organ of Cautiousness ; the
sense of fear originating in high excitement of this
particular part of the brain. That the reasoning
faculties, however, are sometimes only very partially
suspended we have abundant evidence, in the fact of
the individual not only, now and then, studiously
avoiding danger, but performing offices which re-
quire no small degree of judgment. In‘ the higher
kinds of somnambulism, so many of the organs of
the brain are in activity, and there is such perfect
wakefulness of the external senses and locomotive
powers, that the person may almost be said to be
awalkze.

Somnambulism bears acloser analogy than a com-
mon dream to madness. “ Like madness, it is accom-
panied with muscular action, with coherent and in-
coherent conduct, and with that complete oblivion
(in most cases) of both, which takes place in the

worst grade of madness.” *

* Rush’s Medical Inquiries.

164

Somnambulists generally walk with their eyes
open, but these organs are, nevertheless, frequently
asleep, and do not exercise their functions. This
fact was well known to Shakspeare, as is apparent
in the fearful instance of Lady Macbeth :

‘¢ Doctor. You see her eyes are open.
Gentleman. Ay, but their sense is shut.”

The following is a remarkable instance in point,
and shows that though the power of vision was sus-
pended, that of hearing continued in full opera-
tion.

A female servant in the town of Chelmsford,
surprised the family, at four o’clock one morning,
by walking down a flight of stairs in her sleep, and
rapping at the bed-room door of her master, who
inquired what she wanted? when, in her usual tone
of voice, she requested some cotton, saying that she
had torn her gown, but hoped that her mistress
would forgive her: at the same time bursting into
tears. Her fellow-servant, with whom she had
been conversing for some time, observed her get
out of bed, and quickly followed her, but not before
she had related the pitiful story. She then returned
to her room, and a light having been procured,
she was found grouping to find her cotton-box.

Another person went to her, when, perceiving

165

a difference in the voice; she called out, ‘ That is a
different voice, that is my mistress,’ which was
not the case—thus clearly showing, that she did
not see the object before her, although her eyes
were wide open. Upon inquiry as to what was
the matter, she only said that she wanted some
cotton, but that her fellow-servant had been to her
master and mistress, making a fuss about it. It was
now thought prudent that she should be allowed to
remain quiet for some short time, and she was per-
suaded to lie down with her fellow-servant, until
the usual hour of rising, thinking that she might
then awake in her accustomed manner. This failing
in effect, her mistress went up to her room, and,
rather angrily desired her to get up, and go to her
work, as it was now six o'clock; this she refused,
telling her mistress that if she did not please her,
she might look out for another servant, at the same
time saying, that she would not rise up at two
o'clock, (pointing to the window,) to injure her
health for any one. For the sake of a joke, she
was told to pack up her things, and start off imme-
diately, but to this she made no reply. She re-
buked her fellow-servant for not remaining longer
in bed, and shortly after this became quiet. She

was afterwards shaken violently, and awoke. She

166

then rose, and seeing the cotton-box disturbed, de-
manded to know why it had been meddled with, not
knowing that she alone was the cause of it. In the
course of the day, several questions were put to
her in order to try her recollection, but the real
fact, of her walking, was not made known to her;
and she is still quite unconscious of what has trans-
pired.

The next case is of a different description, and
exhibits a dormant state of the sense of hearing,
while sight appears, throughout, to have been in
active operation.

A young man named Johns, who works at
Cardrew, near Redruth, being asleep in the sump-
house of that mine, was observed by two boys
to rise and walk to the door, against which he
leaned; shortly after, quitting that position, he
walked to the engine-shaft, and safely descended to
the depth of twenty fathoms, where he was found
by his comrades soon after, with his back resting
on the ladder. They called to him, to apprize him
of the perilous situation in which he was, but he
did not hear them, and they were obliged to shake
him roughly till he awoke, when he appeared totally
at a loss to account for his being so situated.

In Lodge’s “ Historical Portraits,” there is a

ae

167

likeness, by Sir Peter Lely, of Lord Culpepper’s
brother, so famous as a dreamer. In 1686, he was
indicted at the Old Bailey, for shooting one of the
Guards, and his horse to boot. He pleaded som-
nambulism, and was acquitted on producing nearly
fifty witnesses to prove the extraordinary things he
did in his sleep.

A very curious circumstance is related of Dr.
Franklin, in the memoirs of that eminent philoso-
pher, published by his grandson. “I went out,”
said the Doctor, “ te bathe in Martin’s salt water
hot bath, in Southampton, and, floating on my back,
fell asleep, and slept nearly an hour, by my watch,
without sinking or turning—a thing I never did
before, and should hardly have thought possible.”

A case still more extraordinary occurred some
time ago in one of the towns on the coast of Ireland.
About two o'clock in the morning, the watchmen
on the Revenue quay, were much surprised at des-
crying a man disporting himself in the water, about
a hundred yards from the shore. Intimation having
been given to the Revenue boat’s crew, they pushed
off and succeeded in picking him up, but strange to
say, he had no idea whatever of his perilous situa-
tion: and it was with the utmost difficulty they
could persuade him he was not still in bed. But

168

the most singular part of this novel adventure, and
which was afterwards ascertained, was that the man
had left his house at twelve o’clock that night, and
walked through a difficult and, to him, dangerous
road, a distance of nearly two miles, and had actu-
ally swum one mile and a half when he was for-
tunately discovered and picked up.

Not very long ago a boy was seen fishing off

Brest, up to the middle in water. On coming up
to him, he was found to be fast asleep.
I know a gentleman who, in consequence of
dreaming that the house was broken into by thieves,
got out of bed, dropped from the window (fortun-
ately a low one) into the street; and was a consid-
erable distance on his way to warn the police, when
he was discovered by one of them, who awoke him,
and conducted him home.

A case is related of an English clergyman who
used to get up in the night, light his candle,
write sermons, correct them with interlineations,
and retire to bed again; being all the time asleep.
The Archbishop of Bourdeaux mentions a similar
ease of a student, who got up to compose a sermon
while asleep, wrote it correctly, read it over from
one end to the other, or at least appeared to read

it, made corrections on it, scratched out lines, and

169

substituted others, put in its place a word which
had been omitted, composed music, wrote it accu-
rately down, and performed other things equally
surprising. Dr. Gall takes notice of a miller who
was in the habit of getting up every night and
attending to his usual avocations at the mill, then
returning to bed: on awaking in the morning’, he
recollected nothing of what passed during night.
Martinet speaks of a saddler who was accustomed
to rise in his sleep and work at his trade; and Dr.
Pritchard of a farmer who got out of bed, dressed
himself, saddled his horse, and rode to the market,
being all the while asleep. Dr. Blacklock, on
one occasion, rose from bed, to which he had re-
tired at an early hour, came into the room where
his family were assembled, conversed with them,
and afterwards entertained them with a pleasant
song, without any of them suspecting he was asleep,
and without his retaining, after he awoke, the least
recollection of what he had done. It is a singular,
yet well authenticated fact, that in the disastrous
retreat of Sir John Moore, many of the soldiers fell
asleep, yet continued to march along with their
comrades.

The stories related of sleep-walkers are, indeed,

of so extraordinary a kind, that they would almost
I

o™

170

seem fictitious, were they not supported by the
most incontrovertible evidence. To walk on the
house-top, to scale precipices, and descend to
the bottom of frightful ravines, are common
exploits with the somnambulist; and he performs
them with a facility far beyond the power of any
man who is completely awake. A story is told
of a boy, who dreamed that he got out of bed, and
ascended to the summit of an enormous rock, where
he found an eagle’s nest, which he brought away
with him, and placed beneath his bed. Now, the
whole of these events actually tool place; and what’
he conceived, on awaking, to be a mere vision, was
proved to have had an actual existence, by the nest
being found in the precise spot where he imagined)
he had put it, and by the evidence of spectators who
beheld his perilous adventure. The precipice which
he ascended, was of a nature that must have baffled
the most expert mountaineer, and such as, at other
times, he never could have scaled. In this: instance,
the individual was as nearly as: possible, without
actually being so, awake. All his bodily, and
almost the whole of his mental powers, appear to
have been in full activity. So far as the latter are
concerned, we can only conceive a partial defect of

the judgment to have existed, for that it was not

7!

altogether abolished is pretty evident from the fact
of his proceeding to work precisely as he would have
done, had he, in his waking hours, seriously resolved
to make such an attempt: the defect lay in making
the attempt at all; and still more in getting out of
bed to do so in the middle of the night.

Somnambulism, as well as lunacy, sometimes
bestows supernatural strength upon the individual.
Mr. Dubrie, a musician in Bath, affords an instance
of this kind. One Sunday, while awake, he attempted
in vain to force open the window of his bed-room,
which chanced to be nailed down; but having got
up in his sleep, he repeated the attempt success-
fully, and threw himself out, by which he unfor-
tunately broke his leg.

Sleep-walking is sometimes periodical. Marti-
net describes the case of a watchmaker’s apprentice
who had an attack of it every fortnight. In this
state, though insensible to all external impressions,
he would perform his work with his usual accu-
racy, and was always astonished, on awaking, at
the progress he had made, The paroxysm began
with a sense of heat in the epigastrium extending
to the head, followed by confusion of ideas and
complete insensibility, the eyes remaining open with

a fixed and vacant stare. This case, which undoubt-

172

edly originated in some diseased state of the brain,
terminated in epilepsy. Dr. Gall relates that he
saw at Berlin a young man, sixteen years of age,
who had, from time to time, very extraordinary fits.
He moved about unconsciously in bed, and had no
perception of any thing that was done to him; at
last he would jump out of bed, and walk with rapid
steps about the room, his eyes being fixed and open.
Several obstacles which were placed by Dr. Gall in
his way, he either removed or cautiously avoided.
He then threw himself suddenly again upon bed,
moved about for some time, and finished by jump-
ing up awake, not a little surprised at the number of
curious people about him.

The facility with which somnambulists are awak-
ened from the paroxysm, differs extremely in differ-
ent cases. One man is aroused by being gently
touched or called upon, by a flash of light, by
stumbling in his peregrinations, or by setting his
foot in water. Another remains so heavily asleep,
that it is necessary to shout loudly, to shake him
with violence, and make use of other excitations
equally powerful. In this condition, when the sense
of vision chances to be dormant, it is curious to
look at his eyes. Sometimes they are shut; at other
times wide open; and when the latter is the case,

173

they are observed to he fixed and inexpressive
*“‘ without speculation,” or energy, while the pupil,
is contracted, as in the case of perfect sleep.

It is not always safe to arouse a sleep-walker;
and many cases of the fatal effects thence arising’,
have been detailed by authors. Nor is it at all un-
likely that a person, even of strong nerves, might
be violently agitated by awaking in a situation so
different from that in which he lay down. Among
other examples, that of a young lady, who was
addicted to this affection, may be mentioned. Know-
ing her failing, her friends made a point of locking
the door, and securing the window of her chamber
in such a manner that she could not possibly get
out. One night, these precautions were unfortunate-
ly overlooked; and, in a paroxysm of somnam-
bulism, she walked into the garden behind the
house. While there, she was recognised by some
of the family, who were warned by the noise she
made on opening the door, and they followed and
awoke her; but such was the effect produced upon
her nervous system, that she almost instantly ex-
pired,

The remote causes of sleep-walking are so ob-
scure, that it is seldom we are able to ascertain

them. General irritability of frame, a nervous

174

temperament, and bad digestion, will dispose to the
affection. Being a modification of dreaming, those
who are much troubled with the latter will, conse-
quently, be most prone to its attacks. The causes,
however, are, in a great majority of cases, so com-
pletely unknown, that any attempt to investigate
them would be fruitless; and we are compelled
to refer the complaint to some idiosyncracy of con-
stitution beyond the reach of human knowledge.

According to the report made by a Committee
of the Royal Academy of Sciences in Paris, animal
magnetism appears to have the power of inducing
a peculiar species of somnambulism. The cireum-
stances seem so curious, that, even authenticated
as they are by men of undoubted integrity and
talent, it is extremely difficult to place reliance upon
them. The person who is thrown into the mag-
netic sleep is said to acquire a new conscious-
ness, and entirely to forget all the events of his
ordinary life. When this sleep is dissolved, he
gets into his usual state of feeling and recollection,
but forgets every thing that happened during the
sleep; being again magnetized, however, the re-
membrance of all that occurred in the previous
sleep is brought back to his mind. In one of the

cases above related, the patient, a lady of sixty-four

175

years, had an ulcerated cancer in the right breast.
She had been magnetized for the purpose of dissolv-
ing the tumour, but no other effect was produced
than that of throwing her into a species of somnam-
bulic sleep, in which sensibility was annihilated,
while her ideas retained all their clearness. In this
state, her surgeon, M. Chapelain, disposed her to sub-
mit to an operation, the idea of which she rejected
with horror when awake. Having formally given
her consent, she undressed herself, sat down upon
a chair, and the diseased glands were carefully and
deliberately dissected out, the patient conversing
all the time and being perfectly insensible of pain.
~ On awaking, she had no consciousness whatever
of having been operated upon; but being informed
of the circumstance, and seeing her children around
her, she experienced the most lively emotion, which
the magnetizer instantly checked by again setting
her asleep. These facts appear startling and in-
credible. JI can give no opinion upon the subject
from any thing I have seen myself; but the testi-
mony of such men as Cloquet, Georget, and Itard,
is not to be received lightly on any physiological
point; and they all concur in bearing witness to

such facts as the above. In the present state of

176
knowledge and opinion, with regard to animal mag-
netism, and the sleep occasioned by it, I shall not
say more at present, but refer the reader to the
ample details contained in the Parisian Report; an
able translation of which into English has been made
by Mr. Colquhoun.

When a person is addicted to somnambulism,
great care should be taken to have the door and
windows of his sleeping apartment secured, so as to
prevent the possibility of egress, as he sometimes
forces his way through the panes of glass: this
should be put out of his power, by having the shut-
ters closed, and bolted in such a way that they
cannot be opened without the aid of a key or screw,
or some such instrument, which should never be left
in the room where he sleeps, but carried away,
while the door is secured on the outside. Some have
recommended that a tub of water should be put by
the bedside, that, on getting out, he might step into
it, and be awakened by the cold; but this, from the
suddenness of its operation, might be attended with
bad consequences in very nervous and delicate sub-
jects. It is a good plan to fix a cord to the bed-
post, and tie the other end of it securely round the

person’s wrist. This will effectually prevent mis-

177

chief if he attempt to get up. Whenever it can be
managed, it will be prudent for another person to
sleep along with him. In all cases, care should be
taken not to arouse him sudden y- This must be done
as gently as possible ; and when he can be conduct-
ed to bed without being awakened at all, it is still
better. Should he be perceived in any dangerous
situation, as on the house-top, or the brink of a pre-
cipice, the utmost caution is requisite; for, if we call
loudly upon him, his dread, on recovering, at finding
himself in such a predicament, may actually occasion
him to fall, where, if he had been left to himself, he
would have escaped without injury.

To prevent a recurrence of somnambulism, we
should remove, if possible, the cause which gave
rise to it. Thus, if it proceed from a disordered
state of the stomach, or biliary system, we must
employ the various medicines used in such cases.
Plenty of exercise should be taken, and late hours
and much study avoided. If it arises from plethora,
he must be blooded, and live low; should hysteria
produce it, antispasmodics, such as valerian, am-
monia, assafeetida, and opium may be necessary.

But, unfortunately, we can often refer sleep-walk-

ing to no complaint whatever. In this case, all that
13

178

can be done is to carry the individual as safely as
possible through the paroxysm, and prevent him
from injury by the means we have mentioned. In
many instances, the affection will wear spontaneous-
ly away: in others, it will continue in spite of every
remedy.

CHAPTER VIII.

SLEEP.TALKING,

Tus closely resembles somnambulism, and proceeds
from similar causes. In somnambulism, those parts
of the brain which are awake call the muscles of
the limbs into activity ; while, in sleep-talking, it is
the muscles necessary for the production of speech
which are animated by the waking cerebral organs.
During sleep, the organ of Language may be active,
either singly or in combination with other parts of
the brain; and of this activity sleep-talking is the

result.* If, while we dream that we are conversing

* Among the insane, the organ just mentioned is occasionally
excited to such a degree that even, in the waking state, the
patient, however desirous, is literally unable to refrain from
speaking. Mr. W. A. F. Browne has reported two cases of

180

with some one, the organ of Language is in such a
high state of activity as to rouse the muscles of
speech, we are sure to talk. It often happens,
however, that the cerebral parts, though sufficiently
active to make us dream that we are speaking, are
not excited so much as to make us actually speak.
We only suppose we are carrying on a conversation,
while, in reality, we are completely silent. To pro-
duce sleep-talking, therefore, the brain, in some of its
functions, must be so much awakeas to put into action
the voluntary muscles by which speech is produced.

The conversation in this state, is of such subjects

this nature in the 37th No. of the Phrenological Journal. ‘The
first is that of a woman in the hospital of La Salpetriére in Paris.
Whenever she encounters the physician or other of the atten-
dants, she bursts forth into an address which is delivered with
incredible rapidity and vehemence, and is generally an abusive
or ironical declamation against the tyranny, cruelty, and injustice
to which she is exposed. In the midst of her harangues, how-
ever, she introduces frequent and earnest parenthetical declara-
tions ‘that she does not mean what she says; that though she
vows vengeance and showers imprecations on her medical at-
tendant, she loves him, and feels grateful for his kindness and
ferbearance; and that, though anxious to evince her gratitude and
obedience by silence, she is constrained by an invisible agency to
speak.” In the other case, the individual speaks constantly :
“ sleep itself does not yield an intermission ; and there is strong
reason to believe that a part, at least, of his waking orations is
delivered either without the cognizance of the other powers, or
without consciousness on the part of the speaker.”

18]

as our thoughts are most immediately occupied
with; and its consistency or incongruity depends
upon that of the prevailing ideas—being sometimes
perfectly rational and coherent; at other times, full
of absurdity. The voice is seldom the same as in
the waking state. This I would impute to the
organs of hearing being mostly dormant, and con-
sequently unable to guide the modulations of sound.
The same fact is observable in very deaf persons,
whose speech is usually harsh, unvaried, and mono-
tonous. Sometimes the faculties are so far awake,
that we can manage to converse with the individual,
and extract from him the most hidden secrets of his
soul: circumstances have thus been ascertained
which would otherwise have remained in perpetual
obscurity. By a little address in this way, a gen-
tleman lately detected the infidelity of his wife
from some expressions which escaped her while
asleep, and succeeded in finding out that she had
a meeting arranged with her paramour for the fol-
lowing day. Lord Byron describes a similar scene
in his “ Parasina:”

“ And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed,
To covet there another's bride;
But she must lay her conscious head

A husband’s trusting heart beside.

182

But fever’d in her sleep she seems,
And red her cheek with troubled dreams,
And mutters she in her unrest
A name she dare not breathe by day,
And clasps her Lord unto her breast
Which pants for one away.”

From what has been said of somnambulism, the
reader will be prepared for phenomena equally
curious as regards sleep-talking. Persons have been
known, for instance, who delivered sermons and
prayers during sleep ; among others, Dr. Haycock,
Professor of Medicine in Oxford. He would give
out a text in his sleep, and deliver a good sermon
upon it; nor could all the pinching and pulling of
his friends prevent him. “One of the most re-
markable cases of speaking during sleep,” observes
a writer in Fraser’s Magazine, “is that of an Ame-
rican lady, now (we believe) alive, who preached
during her sleep, performing regularly every part
of the Presbyterian service, from the psalm to the
blessing. This lady was the daughter of respect-
able and even wealthy parents; she fell into bad
health, and, under its influence, she disturbed and
annoyed her family by her nocturnal eloquence.
Her unhappy parents, though at first surprised, and
perhaps flattered by the exhibition in their family
of so extraordinary a gift, were at last convinced

183

that it was the result of disease; and, in the expec-
tation that their daughter might derive benefit from
change of scene, as well as from medical skill, they
made a tour with her of some length, and visited
New York and some of the other great cities of the
Union. We know individuals who have heard her
preach during the night in steam-boats ; and it was
customary, at tea parties in New York, (in the
houses of medical practitioners,) to put the lady to
bed in a room adjacent to the drawing-room, in
order that the dilletanti might witness so extra-
ordinary a phenomenon. We have been told by ear-
witnesses that her sermons, though they had the
appearance of connected discourses, consisted chiefly
of texts of Scripture strung together. It is strongly
impressed upon our memory that some of her ser-
mons were published in America.”

In the Edinburgh Journal of Science, a lady who
was subject to spectral illusions, is described as being
subject to talk in her sleep with great fluency, to re-
peat great portions of poetry, especially when unwell,
and even to cap verses for half an hour at a time,
never failing to quote lines beginning with the final
letter of the preceding till her memory was exhausted.

Dr. Dyce, in the Edinburgh Philosophical Trans-

184

actions, relates the case of Maria C——, who,
during one paroxysm of somnambulism, recollected
what took place in a preceding one, without having
any such recollection during the interval of wake-
fulness. One of the occasions in which this young
woman manifested the power in question, was of a
very melancholy nature. Her fellow-servant, a
female of abandoned character, having found out
that, on awaking, she entirely forgot every thing
which occurred during the fit, introduced by stealth
into the house, a young man of her acquaintance,
and obtained for him an opportunity of treating
Maria. in the most brutal and treacherous manner.
The wretches succeeded in their object by stopping
her mouth with the bedclothes, by which and other
means, they overcame the vigorous resistance she
was enabled to make to their villany, even in her
somnolent state. On awaking, she had no con-
sciousness whatever of the outrage ; but some days
afterwards, having fallen into the same state, it re-
curred to her memory, and she related to her mo-
ther all the revolting particulars. The state of
mind in this case was perfectly analogous to that
which is said to occur in the magnetic sleep; but

the particular state of the brain which induces

185

such conditions will, I believe, ever remain a mys-
tery.*
I a ea a
* A case, in some respects similar, was published in the Me-
dical Repository, by Dr. Mitchell, who received the particulars
of it from Major Ellicot, Professor of Mathematics in the United
States Military Academy at West Point. The subject was a
young lady, of a good constitution, excellent capacity, and well
educated. ‘ Her memory was capacious and well stored with
a copious stock of ideas. Unexpectedly, and without any fore-
warning, she fell into a profound sleep, which continued several
hours beyond the ordinary term. On waking, she was dis-
covered to have lost every trait of acquired knowledge. Her me-
mory was tabula rasa—all vestiges, both of words and things
were obliterated and gone. It was found necessary for her to
learn every thing again. She even acquired, by new efforts, the
art of spelling, reading, writing, and calculating, and gradually
became acquainted with the persons and objects around, like a
being for the first time brought into the world. In these exer-
cises she made considerable proficiency. But after a few
months, another fit of somnolency invaded her. On rousing
from it, she found herself restored to the state she was in before
the first paroxysm; but was wholly ignorant of every event
and occurrence that had befallen her afterwards. The former
condition of her existence she now calls the Old State, and the
latter the New State; and she is as unconscious of her double
character as two distinct persons are of their respective natures.
For example, in her old state, she possesses all the original
knowledge; in her new state, only what she acquired since. If
a lady or gentleman be introduced to her in the old state, and
vice versa, (and so of all other matters) to know them satisfac»
torily, she must learn them in both states. In the old state,
she possesses fine powers of penmanship, while in the new, she
writes a poor, awkward hand, having not had time or means to

186

The following singular case of sleep-talking, com-
bined with somnambulism, will prove interesting to
the reader :—

“ A very ingenious and elegant young lady, with
light eyes and hair, about the age of seventeen, in
other respects well, was suddenly seized with this
very wonderful malady. The disease began with
violent convulsions of almost every muscle of her
body, with great, but vain efforts to vomit, and the
most violent hiccoughs that can be conceived: these
were succeeded in about an hour with a fixed
spasm; in which, one hand was applied to her head,
and the other to support it: in about half an hour
these ceased, and the reverie began suddenly, and
was at first manifest by the look of her eyes and
countenance, which seemed to express attention.
Then she conversed aloud with imaginary persons,
with her eyes open, and could not, for about an
hour, be brought to attend to the stimulus of ex-

ternal objects by any kind of violence which it was

become expert. During four years and upwards, she has had
periodical transitions from one of these states to the other, The
alterations are always consequent upon along and sound sleep.
Both the lady and her family are now capable of conducting
the affair without embarrassment. By simply knowing whe-
ther she is in the old or new state, they regulate the intercourse,
and govern themselves accordingly.”

187

possible to use: these symptoms returned in this
order every day for five or six weeks.

“ These conversations were quite consistent, and
we could understand what she supposed her imagi-

‘ary companions to answer, by the continuation of

her part of the discourse. Sometimes she was
angry, at other times showed much wit and vivacity,
but was most frequently inclined to melancholy.
In these reveries, she sometimes sung over some
‘music with accuracy, and repeated whole passages

from the English Poets. In repeating some lines

from Mr. Pope’s works, she had forgot one word,
and began again, endeavouring to recollect it; when
she came to the forgotten word, it was shouted
aloud in her ears, and this repeatedly, to no pur-
pose; but by many trials she at length regained it
herself.

“Those paroxysms were terminated with the

appearance of inexpressible surprise and great fear,
from which she was some minutes in recovering
herself, calling on her sister with great agitation,
and very frequently underwent a repetition of con-
vulsions, apparently from the pain of fear.

“ After having thus returned for about an hour
a-day, for two or three weeks, the reveries seemed

to become less complete, and some of the circum-

188

stances varied, so that she could walk about the
room in them, without running against any of the
furniture ; though these motions were at first very
unsteady and tottering. And, afterwards, she once
drank a dish of tea, when the whole apparatus of
the tea-table was set before her, and expressed
some suspicion that a medicine was put into it; and
once seemed to smell at a tuberose, which was in
flower in her chamber, and deliberated alond about
breaking it from the stem, saying, ‘It would make
her sister so charmingly angry. At another time,
in her melancholy moments, she heard the bell, and
then taking off one of her shoes as she sat upon the
bed, ‘I love the colour black,’ says she; ‘a little
wider and a little longer, and even this might make
me a coffin!’ Yet it is evident she was not sensible
at this time, any more than formerly, of. seeing or
hearing any person about her; indeed, when great
light was thrown upon her by opening the shutters
of the window, she seemed less melancholy; and
when I have forcibly held her hands, or covered
her eyes, she appeared to grow impatient, and
would say, she could not tell what to do, for she
could neither see nor move. In all these circum-
stances, her pulse continued unaffected, as in

health. And when the paroxysm was over, she

189

could never recollect a single idea of what had
passed.”’*

Equally extraordinary is the following instance
of combined sleep-talking and somnambulism :—

_ * A remarkable instance of this affection occurred
to a lad named George David, sixteen years and a
half old, in the service of Mr. Hewson, butcher, of
Bridge-Road, Lambeth. At about twenty minutes
after nine o'clock, the lad bent forward in his chair,
and rested his forehead on his hands, and in ten
minutes started up, went for his whip, put on his
one spur, and went thence to the stable; not find-
ing his own saddle in the proper place, he returned
to the house and asked for it. Being asked what
he wanted with it, he replied, to go his rounds. He
returned to the stable, got on the horse without the
saddle, and was proceeding to leave the stable: it
was with much difficulty and force that Mr. Hewson,
junior, assisted by the other lad, could remove him
from the horse; his strength was great, and it was
with difficulty he was brought in doors. Mr. Hew-
son, senior, coming home at this time, sent for Mr.
Benjamin Ridge, an eminent practitioner, in Bridge-

Road, who stood by him for a quarter of an hour,

+

* Darwin’s “ Zconomia,”

190

during which time the lad considered himself as
stopped at the turnpike-gate, and took sixpence out
of his pocket to be changed; and holding out his
hand for the change, the sixpence was returned to
him. He immediately observed, ‘None of your
nonsense—that is the sixpence again; give me my
change ; when twopence halfpenny was given to
him, he counted it over, and said, ‘ None of your
gammon ; that is not right; I want a penny more;
making the threepence halfpenny, which was his
proper change. He then said, ‘Give me my castor,’
(meaning his hat,) which slang term he had been in
the habit of using, and then began to whip and spur
to get his horse on. His pulse at this time was 136,
full and hard; no change of countenance could be ob-
served, nor any spasmodic affection of the muscles,
the eyes remaining close the whole of the time. His
coat was taken off his arm, shirt-sleeves tucked up,
and Mr. Ridge bled him to 32 ounces; no alteration
had taken place in him during the first part of the
time the blood was flowing; at about 24 ounces, the
pulse began to decrease; and when the full quantity
named above had been taken, it was at 80—a slight
perspiration on the forehead. During the time of
bleeding, Mr. Hewson related a circumstance of a

Mr. Harris, optician, in Holborn, whose son, some

19]

years since, walked out on the parapet of the house
in his sleep. The boy joined the conversation, and
observed, ‘ He lived at the corner of Brownlow-
Street.’ After the arm was tied up, he unlaced one
boot, and said he would go to bed: in three
minutes from this time, he awoke, got up, and asked
what was the matter, (having then been one hour
in the trance, ) not having the slightest recollection
of any thing that had passed, and wondered at his
arm being tied up, and at the blood, &c. A strong
aperient medicine was then administered: he went
to bed, slept well, and the next day appeared per-
fectly well, excepting debility from the bleeding, and
operation of the medicine, and has no recollection
whatever of what had taken place. None of his
family or himself were ever affected in this way
before.” *

Sleep-talking is generally such a trivial affection
as not to require any treatment whatever. In every
case the digestive organs must be attended to, and,
if disordered, put to rights by suitable medicines.
And should the affection proceed, or be supposed
to proceed, from hypochondria, hysteria, or the
prevalence of any strong mental emotion, these

——

* “ Lancet,” vol. i.

192

states must be treated according to general prin-
ciples. When it arises from idiosyncrasy, and
becomes habitual, I believe that no means which
can be adopted will be of much avail. As, in the
ease of somnambulism, it very frequently happens
that the affection, after continuing for a long time
and baffling every species of treatment, disappears

spontaneously.

CHAPTER IX.

SLEEPLESSNESS,’

SLEEP takes place as soon as the sensorial power
that keeps the brain awake is expended, which,
under common circumstances, occurs at our ordi-
nary hour of going to rest, or even sooner, if any
soporific cause sufficiently strong should chance to |
operate. But the above power may be increased
by various means, as in cases of physical suffer-
ing, or excited imagination, and, consequently, is
not expended at the usual time. In this case, the
person remains awake, and continues so till the
period of its expenditure, which may not happen for
several hours after he lies down, or even not at all,
during the whole of that night. Now, whatever

increases the sensorial power, whether it be balls,
K

194

concerts, grief, joy, or bodily pain, is prejudicial to
repose. By them the mind is exalted to a pitch of
unnatural action, from which it is necessary it
should descend before it can roll into the calm
channel of sleep.

Whatever stimulates the external senses, however
slightly, may prevent sleep. Thus, the ticking of
a clock has this effect with very sensitive people ;
and a candle burning in the chamber is attended with
the same result. Even when the eyes are shut this
may take place, for the eye-lids are sufficiently trans-
parent to transmit a sense of light to the retina.
For the same reason, the light of day peering in at
the window may awake us from or prevent slume
ber. It is said that Napoleon could never sleep if
exposed to the influence of light, although, in other
circumstances, slumber appeared at his bidding with
surprising readiness.

A constitutional restlessness is sometimes brought
on by habitually neglecting to solicit sleep when
we lie down, by which means the brain is brought
into such a state of irritability, that we can hardly
sleep at all. Chronic wakefulness, originating from
any mental or bodily affection, sometimes degene-
rates into a habit, in which the sufferer will remain

for weeks, months, or even years, if authors are te

195

be believed, awake. In the disease called delirium
tremens, wakefulness is a constant symptom, and
frequently continues for many successive days and
nights. It is also an attendant upon all disorders
accompanied by acute suffering, especially when the
brain is affected, as in phrenitis, or fever. Maniacs,
from the excited state of their sensorium, are
remarkably subject to want of sleep; and this symp-
tom is often so obstinate as to resist the most
powerful remedies we can venture to prescribe.
Certain stimulating agents, such as tea or coffee,
taken shortly before going to bed, have often the
effect of preventing sleep. I would impute this to
their irritative properties, which, by supplying the
brain with fresh sensorial power, enable it to carry
on uninterruptedly all its functions longer than it
would otherwise do, and consequently prevent it
from relapsing into slumber at the usual period.
Any uneasy bodily feeling has the same effect—
both preventing the accession of sleep, and arousing
us from it when it has fairly taken place.- Thus,
while moderate fatigue provokes slumber, excessive
fatigue, owing to the pain and irritation it neces-
sarily occasions, drives it away. Sickness, cold, heat,
pregnancy, the ordinary calls of nature, a disagree-

able bed, the want of an accustomed supper, too

196

heavy a supper, or uneasiness of any kind, have
the same result. Cold is most apt to induce sleep-
lessness, when partial, especially if it be confined
to the feet; for, when general and sufficiently in-
tense, it has the opposite effect, and gives rise to
drowsiness. Certain diseases, such as hemicrania,
tic doloureux, &c., have actually kept the person
awake for three successive months; and all painful
affections prevent sleep more or less. But the most
violent tortures cannot altogether banish, how-
ever much they may retard it. Sooner or later the
fatigue, which a want of it occasions, prevails, and
slumber ultimately ensues.

Sleeplessness is sometimes produced by a sense
of burning heat in the soles of the feet and palms of
the hands, to which certain individuals are subject
some time after lying down. This seems to proceed
from a want of perspiration in those parts, owing
generally to impaired digestion.

Mental emotions, of every description, are un-
favourable to repose. If a man, as soon as he lays
his head upon the pillow, can banish thinking, he is
morally certain to fall asleep. There are many
individuals so constituted, that they can do this
without effort, and the consequence is, they are

excellent sleepers. It is very different with those

197

whose minds are oppressed by care, or over-stimulat-
ed by excessive study. The sorrowful man, above all
others, has the most need of sleep; but, far from
shedding its benignant influence over him, it flies
away, and leaves him to the communionship of his
own sad thoughts:

“ His slumbers—if he slumber—are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought.”

Tt is the same with the man of vivid imagination.
His fancy, instead of being subdued by the spell
of sleep, becomes more active than ever. Thoughts
in a thousand fantastic forms—myriads of waking
dreams—pass through his mind, whose excessive
activity spurns at repose, and mocks all his en-
deavours to reduce it to quiescence. Great joy
will often scare away sleep for many nights; but,
in this respect, it is far inferior to grief, a fixed
attack of which has been known to keep the
sufferer awake for several months. Those who
meditate much, seldom sleep well in the early
part of the night: they lie awake, for perhaps two
6r three hours, after going to bed, and do not fall
into slumber till towards morning. Persons of this

description often lie long and are reputed lazy by

198

early risers, although, it is probable, they actually
sleep less than these early risers themselves.
Long-continued study is highly prejudicial to repose.
Boerhaave mentions that, on one occasion, owing
to this circumstance, he did not close his eyes for
six weeks.

Nothing is so hurtful both to the mind and body
as want of sleep. Deprived of the necessary por-
tion, the person gets wan, emaciated and listless,
and very soon falls into bad health: the spirit
becomes entirely broken, and the fire of even the
most ardent dispositions is quenched. Nor is this
law peculiar to the human race, for it operates with
similar power upon the lower animals, and deprives
them of much of their natural ferocity. An illus-
tration of this fact is afforded in the taming of wild
elephants. These animals, when first caught, are
studiously prevented from sleeping ; in consequence
of which, they become, in a few days, comparatively
mild and harmless. Restlessness, when long pro-
tracted, may. terminate in delirium, or confirmed
insanity; and, in many diseases, it is the most
obstinate symptom we have to struggle against.
By it alone, all the existing bad symptoms are

aggravated; and as soon as we can succeed in over-

199

coming it, every thing disagreeable and dangerous
frequently wears away, and the person is restored
to health.

In restlessness, both the perspiration and urinary
secretions are usually much increased ; there is also
an accession of heat in the system, and a general
feverish tendency, unless the want of sleep should
proceed from cold.

With regard to the treatment of sleeplessness, a
very few words will suffice: in fact, upon this head
little more can be said, than a recommendation to
obviate the causes from whence it proceeds, and it
will naturally disappear. I may mention, how-
ever, that when there is no specific disease, either
of body or mind, to which the want of sleep can be
imputed, the person should keep himself in as
cheerful a mood as possible—should rise early, if his
strength permits it, and take such exercise as to
fatigue himself moderately ; and if all these means
fail, that he ought to make use of opium. In all
cases of restlessness, indeed, this medicine must be
had recourse to, if the affection resists every other
remedy, and continues so long as to endanger
health. Those preparations of opium, the acetate
and muriate of morphia, have latterly been a

good deal used, and with excellent effect, for the

200

same purpose. When neither opium nor its pre-
parations agrees with the constitution, it becomes
necessary to employ other narcotics, especially
hyosciamus or hop. <A pillow of hops sometimes
succeeds in inducing sleep, when other means fail.
Such was the case with his late majesty, George
ITI., who, by this contrivance, was relieved from
the protracted wakefulness under which he labour-
ed for so long a time. In giving medicines to
produce sleep, great attention must be paid to the
disease which occasions the restlessness; for, in
phrenitis, high fever, and some other disorders, it
would be most injurious to administer anodynes of
any kind. In such cases, as the restlessness is merely
a symptom of the general disease, its removal
will depend upon that of the latter. When, how-
ever, the acute symptoms have been overcome, and
nothing but chronic wakefulness, the result of de-
bility, remains behind, it then becomes necessary to
have recourse to opiam, or such other remedies as
may be considered applicable to the particular case.
Studious men ought to avoid late reading; and, on
going to bed, endeavour to abstract their minds
from all intrusive ideas. They should try to cir-
cumscribe their thoughts within the narrowest pos-

sible circle, and prevent them from becoming rambling

201

or excursive. I have often coaxed myself asleep,
by internally repeating, half a dozen of times, any
well knownrhyme. While doing so, the ideas must
be strictly directed to this particular theme, and
prevented from wandering; for sometimes, during
the process of repetition, the mind takes a strange
turn, and performs two offices at the same time, being
directed to the rhyme on the one hand, and to some-
thing else on the other; and it will be found that the
hold it has of the former, is oftentimes much weaker
than of the latter. The great secret is, by a strong ef-
fort of the will to compel the mind to depart from the
favourite train of thought into which it has run, and
address itself solely to the internal repetition of what —
is substituted in its place. If this is persevered in,
it will generally be found to succeed; and I would
recommend all those who are prevented from sleep-
ing, in consequence of too active a flow of ideas, to
try the experiment. As has been already remark-
ed, the more the mind is brought to turn upon a
single impression, the more closely it is made to
approach to the state of sleep, which is the total
absence of allimpressions. People should never go
to bed immediately after studying hard, as the
brain is precisely in that state of excitement which

must prevent sleep. The mind ought previously
K 3

202

to be relaxed by light conversation, music, or any
thing which requires little thought.

In some cases of restlessness, sleep may be pro-
cured by the person getting up, and walking for a
few minutes about the room. It is not easy to ex-
plain on what principle this acts, but it is certain,
that by such means sleep sometimes follows, where
previously it had been solicited in vain. It is
customary with some people to read themselves
into slumber, but dangerous accidents have arisen
from this habit, in consequence of the lighted
candle setting fire to the bed-curtains. A safer and
more effectual way is to get another person to
read; in which case, sleep will very generally take
place, especially if the subject in question is not one
of much interest, or read in a dry monotonous man-
ner. When sleeplessness proceeds from the heat of
the weather, the person should lie very lightly
covered, and let the air circulate freely through his
room. <A cold bath taken shortly before going to bed,
or sponging the body with cold water, will often in-
sure a comfortable night's rest in the hot season of
the year. When it arises from heat in the soles or
palms, these parts should be bathed with cold vinegar
and water, before lying down, and, if necessary,

occasionally afterwards till the heat abates, which

203

usually occurs in two or three hours. Attention
must also be paid to the stomach and bowels.

An easy mind, a good digestion, and plenty of
exercise in the open air, are the grand conducives to
sound sleep ;—and, accordingly, every man whose
repose is indifferent, should endeavour to make
them his own as soon as possible. When sleepless-
ness becomes habitual, the utmost care ought to be
taken to overcome the habit, by the removal of every
thing that has a tendency to cherish it.

CHAPTER X.

DROWSINESS.

DRowsINEss is symptomatic of apoplexy and some
other diseases, but sometimes it exists as an idio-
pathic affection. There are persons who have a
disposition to sleep on every occasion. They do so
at all times, and in all places. They sleep after
dinner; they sleep in the theatre; they sleep in
church. It is the same to them in what situation
they may be placed: sleep is the great end of their
existence—their occupation—their soleemployment.
Morpheus is the deity at whose shrine they worship
—the only god whose influence over them is omni-
potent. Let them be placed in almost any circum-
stances, and their constitutional failing prevails. It

falls upon them in the midst of mirth; it assails

205
them when travelling. Let them sail, or ride, or
sit, or lie, or walk, sleep overtakes them—binds
their faculties in torpor; and makes them dead to
all that is passing around. Such are our dull,
heavy-headed, drowsy mortals, those sons and
daughters of phlegm—with passions as inert as a
Dutch fog, and intellects as sluggish as the move-
ments of the hypopotamus or leviathan. No class
of society is so insufferable as this. There is a tor-
por and obtuseness about their faculties, which render
them dead to every impression. They have eyes and
ears, yet they neither see nor hear ; and the most ex-
hilarating scenes may be passing before them without
once attracting their notice. It is not uncommon
for persons of this stamp to fall asleep in the midst
of a party to which they have been invited: Mr.
Mackenzie, in one of his Papers, speaks of an honest
farmer having done so alongside of a young lady,
who was playing on the harp for his amusement.
The cause of this constitutional disposition to doze
upon every occasion, seems to be a certain want of
activity in the brain, the result of which is, that
the individual is singularly void of fire, energy
and passion. He is of a phlegmatic temperament,
generally a great eater, and very destitute of

imagination. Such are the general characteristics

206

of those who are predisposed to drowsiness: the
cases where such a state coexists with intellectual
energy are few in number.

Boerhaave speaks of an eccentric physician who
took it into his head that sleep was the natural state
of man, and accordingly slept eighteen hours out
of the twenty-four—till he died of apoplexy, a
disease which is always apt to be produced by
excessive sleep.

Cases of constitutional drowsiness are in a great
measure without remedy, for the soporific tendency
springs from some natural defect, which no medi-
cinal means can overcome.

Equally impossible of cure is the affection when
it arises, as it very often does, from old age. Even
long before this period of life, as at the age of fifty
or sixty, people very often get into somnolent
habits, and are pretty sure to fall asleep if they
attempt to read, or even if they place themselves in
an easy chair before the fire. I know of no cure for
this indolent propensity, unless indeed the habit
arises, as it sometimes does, from corpulency, in
which case it is more manageable, in so far as its
cause is occasionally capable of being removed.

Drowsiness sometimes proceeds from a fulness

of blood in the head, or a disordered state of the

207

digestive organs. When it originates from the
former canse, it becomes necessary to have recourse
to general or local blood-letting. The person, like-
wise, should use, from time to time, mild laxatives,
live temperately, and take abundance of exercise.
Medicines of a similar kind ere necessary when the
affection arises from the state of the stomach and
bowels: so soon as these organs are restored to
_ health, the symptomatic drowsiness will naturally
disappear. |

Persons who feel the disposition to drowsiness
gaining upon them, should struggle vigorously
against it; for when once the habit is fairly estab-
lished, its eradication is very difficult. Exercise
of body and mind, early rising, and the cold bath,

are among the best means for this purpose.

CHAPTER XI.

PROTRACTED SLEEP.

I HAVE already mentioned a few instances of indi-
viduals remaining for days or weeks in a state of
profound sleep. The nature of this extraordmary
affection is, in a great measure, unknown; it arises,
in most cases, without any obvious cause, generally
resists every method that can be adopted for
removing it, and disappears of its own accord.

The case of Mary Lyall, related in the 8th
volume of the “ Transactions of the Royal Society
of Edinburgh,” is one of the most remarkable in-
stances of excessive somnolency on record. This
woman fell asleep on the morning of the 27th of
June, and continued in that state till the evening

of the 30th of the same month, when she awoke,

209

and remained in her usual way till the first of July,
when she again fell asleep, and continued so till the
8th of August. She was bled, blistered, immersed
in the hot and cold bath, and stimulated in almost
every possible way, without having any conscious-
ness of what was going on. For the first seven
days she continued motionless, and exhibited no
inclination to eat. At the end of this time she
began to move her left hand; and, by pointing to
her mouth, signified a wish for food. She took
readily what was given to her; still she discovered
no symptoms of hearing, and made no other kind
of bodily movement than of her left hand. Her
right hand and arm, particularly, appeared com-
pletely dead, and bereft of feeling; and even when
pricked with a pin, so as to draw blood, never
shrunk in the least degree. At the same time, she
instantly drew back-her left arm whenever it was
touched by the point of the pin. She continued to
take food whenever it was offered to her. For the
first two weeks, her pulse generally stood at 950,
during the third and fourth week, about 60; and,
on the day before her recovery, at 70 or 72. Her
breathing was soft and almost imperceptible, but
during the night-time she occasionally drew it more

strongly, like a person who has first fallen asleep.

~

210

She evinced no symptom of hearing, till about four
days before her recovery. On being interrogated,
after this event, upon her extraordinary state, she
mentioned that she had no knowledge of any thing
that had happened—that she had never been con-
scious of either having needed or received food, or
of having been blistered ; and expressed much sur-
prise on finding her head shaved. She had merely
the idea of having passed a long night in sleep.

The case of Elizabeth Perkins is also remarkable.
In the year 1788, she fell into a profound slumber,
from which nothing could arouse her, and remained
in this state for between eleven and twelve days,
when she awoke of her own accord, to the great
joy of her relatives, and wonder of the neighbour-
hood. On recovering, she went about her usual
business ; but this was only for a short period, for
in a week after she relapsed again into a sleep
which lasted some days. She continued, with
occasional intervals of wakefulness, in a dozing state
for several months, when she expired.

There was lately at Kirkheaton a remarkable in-
stance of excessive sleep. A poor paralytic, twenty
years of age, was seldom, for the period of twelve
months, awoke more than three hours in the

twenty-four. On one occasion, he slept for three

11
weeks: he took not a particle of either food or
drink; nothing could rouse him, even for a moment ;
yet his sleep appeared to be calm and natural.

The case of Elizabeth Armitage of Woodhouse,
near Leeds, may also be mentioned. The age of
this person was sixty-nine years. She had been for
geveral months in a decline, during which she had
taken very little sustenance, when she fell into a
state of lethargic stupor, on the morning of the Ist
of July, 1827, in which condition she remained,
without uttering one word, receiving any food, or
showing any signs of life, except breathing, which
was at times almost imperceptible. In this state
she continued for eight days, when she expired
without a groan.

Excessively protracted sleep may ensue from the
injudicious use of narcotics. A very striking in-
stance of this kind occurred on 17th February, 1816,
near Lymington. In consequence of a complaint
with which a child had been painfully afflicted for
some time previous, its mother gave it an ano-
dyne, (probably laudanum,) for the purpose of pro-
curing it rest. The consequence was, that it fell
into a profound sleep, which continued for three
weeks. In this case, in addition to an excessive

dose, the child must have possessed some constitu-

212.

tional idiosyncrasy, which favoured the operation
of the medicine in a very powerful manner.

One of the most extraordinary instances of ex-
cessive sleep, is that of the lady of Nismes, pub-
lished in 1777, in the “Memoirs of the Royal
Academy of Sciences at Berlin.” Her attacks of
sleep took place periodically, at sunrise and about
noon. The first continued till within a short time
ef the accession of the second, and the second
till between seven and eight in the evening—
when she awoke, and continued so till the next
sunrise. The most extraordinary fact connected
with this case is, that the first attack commenced
always at day-break, whatever might be the season
of the year, and the other always immediately after
twelve o'clock. During the brief interval of wake-
fulness which ensued shortly before noon, she took
a little broth, which she had only time to do, when
the second attack returned upon her, and kept her
asleep till the evening. Her sleep was remarkably
profound, and had all the characters of complete
insensibility, with the exception of a feeble respira-
tion, and a weak but regular movement of the
pulse. The most singular fact connected with her
remains to be mentioned. When the disorder

had lasted six menths, and then ceased, she had

218

an interval of perfect health for the same length of
time. When it lasted one year, the subsequent
interval was of equal duration. The affection at
last wore gradually away; and she lived, entirely
free of it, for many years after. She died in the
eighty-first year of her age, of dropsy, a complaint
which had no connexion with her preceding dis-
order.

There are a good many varieties in the pheno-
mena of protracted sleep. In some cases, the indi-
vidual remains for many days without eating or
drinking ; in others, the necessity for these natural
wants arouses him for a short time from his slumber,
which time he employs in satisfying hunger and
thirst, and then instantly gets into his usual state of
lethargy. The latter kind of somnolency is some-
times feigned by impostors for the purpose of extort-
ing charity; on this account, when an instance of
the kind occurs, it should be narrowly looked into,
to see that there is no deception.

The power possessed by the body of subsisting
for such a length of time in protracted sleep, is most
remarkable, and bears some analogy to the absti-
nence of the Polar bear in the winter season.
It is to be observed, however, that during slumber,

life can be supported by a much smaller portion of

214

food than when we are awake, in consequence of the
diminished expenditure of the vital energy which
takes place in the former state.

All that can be done for the cure of protracted
somnolency, is to attempt to rouse the person by
the use of stimuli, such as blistering, pinching, the
warm or cold bath, the application of sternutatories
to the nose, &c. Blooding should be had recourse
to, if we suspect any apoplectic tendency to exist.
Every means must be employed to get nourishment
introduced into the stomach ; for this purpose, if the
sleeper cannot swallow, nutritious fluids should be
forced, from time to time, into this organ by means
of Jukes’ pump, which answers the purpose of filling

as well as evacuating it.

CHAPTER XII.

arereeeas

SLEEP FROM COLD.

Tuts kind of sleep is so peculiar, that it requires to
be considered separately. The power of cold in
occasioning slumber, is not confined to man, but per-
vades a very extensive class of animals. The hyber-
nation, or winter torpitude of the brown and Polar
bear, results from this cause. Those animals con-
tinue asleep for months; and do not awake from
their apathy till revived by the genial temperature
of spring. The same is the case with the hedge-
hog, the badger, the squirrel, and several species of
the mouse and rat tribes, such as the dormouse and
marmot: as also with the land-tortoise, the frog,
and almost all the individuals of the lizard, inseet,

and serpent tribes. Fishes are often found imbedded

216

in the ice, and, though in a state of apparent death,
become at once lively and animated on being ex-
posed to heat. “ The fish froze,” says Captain
Franklin, “as fast as they were taken out of the
nets, and in a short time became a solid mass of ice,
and by a blow or two of the hatchet were easily split
open, when the intestines might be removed in one
lump. If,in this completely frozen state, they were
thawed before the fire, they recovered their anima-
tion.” Sheep sometimes remain for several weeks in
a state of torpitude, buried beneath wreaths of snow.
Swallows are occasionally in the same state, being
found torpid and insensible in the hollows of trees,
and among the ruins of old houses during the
winter season; but with birds this more rarely
happens, owing, probably, to the temperature of
their blood being higher than that of other animals,
and thereby better enabling them to resist the cold.
Almost all insects sleep in winter. This is particu-
larly the case with the crysalis, and such grubs as
cannot at that season procure their food. In hy-
bernating animals, it is impossible to trace any pecu-
liarity of structure which disposes them to hyber-
nate, and enables life to be sustained during that
period. So far, the subject is involved in deep
obscurity. According to Dr. Edwards, the tems

217

perature of such animals sinks considerably during
sleep, even in summer.

Want of moisture produces torpor in some animals.
This is the case with the garden snail, which revives
if a little water is thrown on it. Snails, indeed,
have revived after being dried for fifteen years. Mr.
Baucer has restored the vibris tritici (a species of
worm) after perfect torpitude and apparent death
for five years and eight months, by merely soaking
it in water. The furcularia anostobea, a small mi-
croscopic animal, may be killed and revived a dozen
times by drying it and then applying moisture.
According to Spallanzani, animaleuli have been re-
covered by moisture after a torpor of twenty-seven
years. Larger animals are thrown into the same
state from want of moisture. Such, according to
Humboldt, is the case with the alligator and boa con-
strictor during the dry season in the plains of Vene-
zuela, and with the centenes solosus, a species of
hedge-hog, found in Madagascar; so that dryness,
as well as cold, produces hybernation, if, in such a
case, we may use that term.

The power of intense cold in producing sleep, is
very great in the human subject, and nothing in
the winter season is more common than to find

people lying dead in fields and on the highways
L

218

from such a cause. An overpowering drowsiness
steals upon them, and, if they yield to its influence,
death is almost inevitable. This is particularly the
case in snow-storms, in which it is often impossible
to get a place of shelter.

This state of torpor, with the exception perhaps
of catalepsy, is the most perfect sleep that can be
imagined: it approaches almost to death in its ap-
parent annihilation of the animal functions. Diges-
tion is at an end, and the secretions and excretions
suspended: nothing seems to go on but circulation,
respiration, and absorption. The two former are
extremely languid,* but the latter tolerably vigorous,
if we may judge from the quantity of fat which the
animal loses during its torpid state. The bear, for
example, on going to its wintry rest, is remarkably
corpulent; on awaking from it, quite emaciated ;
in which state, inspired by the pangs of hunger,
it sallies forth with redoubled fury upon its prey.
Life is sustained by the absorption of this fat, which
for months serves the animal as provision. Such

emaciation, however, is not common to all hyber-

* The extremely languid, or almost suspended state of these
two functions, is demonstrated by the fact, that an animal in a
state of hybernation may be placed for an hour ina jar of hydro-
gen without suffering death.

219

nating animals, some of whom lose little or nothing
by their winter torpitude.

Hybernation may be prevented. Thus the polar
bear in the menagerie at Paris never hybernated ;
and in the marmot and hedge-hog hybernation is
prevented if the animals be kept in a higher tem-
perature. It is also a curious fact, that an animal, if
exposed to a more intense cold, while hybernating,
is awaked from its lethargy. Exposing a hyber-
nating animal to light has also, in many cases, the
same effect.

Some writers, and Buffon among the rest, deny
that such a state of torpor, as we have here describ-
ed, can be looked upon as sleep. This is a question
into which it is not necessary at present to enter.
All I contend for, is, that the state of the mind is
precisely the same here as in ordinary sleep—that,
in both cases, the organs of the senses and of voli-
tion are equally inert; and that though the condi-
tions of the secretive and circulating systems are
different, so many circumstances are nevertheless
identical, that we become justified in considering
the one in a work which professes to treat of the
other.

In Captain Cook’s first voyage, a memorable
instance is given of the power of intense cold in

220

producing sleep. It occurred in the island of Terra-
del-Fuego. Dr. Solander, Mr. Banks, and several
other gentlemen had ascended the mountains of that
cold region, for the purpose of botanizing and
exploring the country. “ Dr. Solander, who had
more than once crossed the mountains which divide
Sweden from Norway, well knew that extreme
cold, especially when joined with fatigue, produces
a torpor and sleepiness that are almost irresistible.
He, therefore, conjured the company to keep moving
whatever pain it might cost them, and whatever
relief they might be promised by an inclination to
rest. «Whoever sits down,’ said he, ‘ will sleep; and
whoever sleeps, will wake no more. Thus at once
admonished and alarmed, they set forward; but
while they were still upon the naked rock, and before
they had got among the bushes, the cold became
suddenly so intense as to produce the effects that
had been most dreaded. Dr. Solander himself was
the first who felt the inclination, against which he
had warned others, irresistible; and insisted upon
being suffered to lie down. Mr. Banks entreated
and remonstrated in vain; down he lay upon the
ground, although it was covered with snow, and
it was with great difficulty that his friend kept him

from sleeping. Richmond, also, one of the black

221

servants, began to linger, having suffered from the
cold in the same manner as the Doctor. Mr. Banks,
therefore, sent five of the company, among whom
was Mr. Buchan, forward, to get a fire ready at the
first convenient place they could find; and himself,
with four others, remained with the Doctor and
Richmond, whom, partly by persuasion and entreaty,
and partly by force, they brought on; but when
they had got through the greatest part of the birch
and swamp, they both declared they could go no
farther. Mr. Banks again had recourse to entreaty.
and expostulation, but they produced noeffect. When
Richmond was told that, if he did not go on, he
would in a short time be frozen to death, he answer-
ed, that he desired nothing but to lie down and die.
The Doctor did not so explicitly renounce his life ;
he said he was willing to go on, but that he must
first take some sleep, though he had before told the
company, to sleep was to perish. Mr. Banks and
the rest found it impossible to carry them; and
there being no remedy, they were both suffered to
sit down, being partly supported by the bushes;
and in a few minutes they fell ito a profound
sleep. Soon after, some of the people who had been
sent forward, returned, with the welcome news that

a fire was kindled about a quarter of a mile farther

222

onthe way. Mr. Banks then endeavoured to awake
Dr. Solander, and happily succeeded. But though
he had not slept five minutes, he had almost lost the
use of his limbs, and the muscles were so shrunk,
that the shoes fell from his feet: he consented to
go forward with such assistance as could be given
him, but no attempts to relieve poor Richmond
were successful.”

It is hardly necessary to say any thing about the
treatment of such cases. Ifa person is found ina
state of torpor from cold, common sense points out
the necessity of bringing him within the influence
of warmth. When, however, the limbs, &c., are
frost-bitten, heat must be very cautiously applied,
lest reaction, ensuing in such debilitated parts,
might induce gangrene. Brisk friction with a
cold towel, or even with snow, as is the custom
in Russia, should, in the first instance, be had
recourse to. When by this means the circulation
is restored, and motion and feeling communicated
to the parts, the heat may be gradually increased,
and the person wrapped in blankets, and allowed
some stimulus internally, such as a little negus, or
spirits and water. This practice should be adopted
from the very first, when the parts are not frost-

bitten; but when such is the case, the stimulating

225

system requires to be used with great caution, and
we must proceed carefully, proportioning the stimu-
lus to the particular circumstances of the case.

If a person is unfortunate enough to be overtaken
in a snow storm, and has no immediate prospect of
extrication, he should, if the cold is very great, and
the snow deep, sink his body as much as possible
in the latter, leaving only room for respiration.
By this plan, the heat of the body is much better
preserved than when exposed to the influence of
the atmosphere, and life has a greater chance
of being saved; for the temperature of the snow
is not lower than that of the surrounding air,
while its power of absorbing caloric is much less.
It is on this principle that sheep live for such a
length of time enveloped in snow wreaths, while,
had they been openly exposed, for a much less
period, to a similar degree of cold, death would
inevitably have ensued.

One of the best methods to prevent the limbs
from being frost-bitten in intensely cold weather, is
to keep them continually in motion. Such was the
method recommended by Xenophon to the Greek
troops, in the memorable “ Retreat of the Ten
Thousand,” conducted by that distinguished soldier

and historian.

CHAPTER XIII.

TRANCE.

THERE is some analogy between suspended anima-
tion and sleep. It is not so striking, however, as
to require any thing like a lengthened discussion of
the former, which I shall only consider in so far as
the resemblance holds good between it and sleep.
I have already spoken of that suspension of the
mind, and of some of the vital functions, which
occurs in consequence of intense cold: but there are
other varieties, not less singular in their nature.
The principal of these are, fainting, apoplexy,
hanging, suffocation, drowning, and, especially,
trance. When complete fainting takes place, it has
many of the characters of death—the countenance

being pale, moist, and clammy; the body cold;

225

the respiration extremely feeble; the pulsation of
the heart apparently at an end; while the mind is
in a state of utter abeyance. It is in the latter
respect only, that the resemblance exists between
syncope and sleep ; in every other they are widely
different. The same rule holds with regard to
apoplexy, in which a total insensibility, even to
the strongest stimuli, takes place, accompanied
also with mental torpor. In recoverable cases of
drowning, hanging, and suffocation, a similar ana-
logy prevails, only in a much feebler degree; the
faculties of the mind being for the time suspended,
and the actual existence of the vital spark only
proved by the subsequent restoration of the indivi-
dual to consciousness and feeling.

The most singular species, however, of suspended
animation is that denominated catalepsy, or trance.
No affection, to which the animal frame is subject, is
more remarkable than this. During its continuance,
the whole body is cold, rigid, and inflexible; the
countenance without colour; the eyes fixed and
motionless: while breathing and the pulsation of
the heart are, to all appearance, at an end. The
mental powers, also, are generally suspended, and
participate in the universal torpor which pervades
the frame. In this extraordinary condition, the

L2

226

person may remain for several days, having all, or
nearly all, the characteristics of death impressed
upon him. Such was the case with the celebrated
Lady Russel, who only escaped premature inter-
ment by the affectionate prudence of her husband ;
and other well authenticated instances of similar
preservation from burying alive ‘have been re-
corded.

The nature of this peculiar species of suspended
animation, seems to be totally unknown; for there
is such an apparent extinction of every faculty
essential to life, that it is inconceivable how exist-
ence should go on during the continuance of the fit.
There can be no doubt, however, that the suspen-
sion of the heart and lungs is more apparent than
real. It is quite certain that the functions of these
organs must continue, so as to sustain life, although
in so feeble a manner as not to come under the
cognizance of our senses. The respiration, m par-
ticular, is exceedingly slight; for a mirror, held to the
mouth of the individual, receives no tarnish what-
ever from his breath. One fact seems certain, that
the functions of the nervous system are wholly sus-
pended, with the exception of such a faint portion
of energy, as to keep up the circulatory and respi-

ratory phenomena: consciousness, in a great majority

227

of casés, is abolished ; and there is nothing wanting ~
to indicate the unquestionable presence of death,
but that decomposition of the body which invariably
follows this state, and which never attends the
presence of vitality.

The remote causes of trance are hidden in much —
obscurity ; and, generally, we are unable to trace
the affection to any external circumstance. It has
been known to follow a fit of terror. Sometimes it
ensues after hysteria, epilepsy, or other spasmodic
diseases, and is occasionally an accompaniment of
menorrhagia and intestinal worms. Nervous and
hypochondriae patients are the most subject to its
attacks; but sometimes it occurs when there is no
disposition of the kind, and when the person is in
a state of the most seeming good health.

« A girl named Shorigny, about twenty-five years
old, residing at Paris, had been for two years past
subject to hysteria. On the twenty-eighth day
after she was first attacked, the physician who came
to visit her was informed that she had died during
the night, which much surprised him, as, when he
had left her the night before, she was better than
usual. He went to see her, in order to convince
himself of the fact; and, on raising the cloth with

which she was covered, he perceived that though

228

her face was very pale, and her lips discoloured,
her features were not otherwise in the least altered.
Her mouth was open, her eyes shut, and the pupils
very much dilated; the light of the candle made no
impression on them. There was no sensible heat
in her body; but it was not cold and flabby, like
corpses in general. The physician returned the
next day, determined to see her again before she
was buried; and, finding that she had not become
cold, he gave orders that the coffin should not be
soldered down until putrefaction had commenced.
He continued to observe her during five days, and
at the end of that period, a slight movement was
observed in the cloth which covered her. In two
hours, it was found that the arm had contracted
itself; she began to move; and it was clear that it
had only been an apparent death. The eyes soon
after were seen opened, the senses returned, and
the girl began gradually to recover. This is an
extraordinary, but incontestible fact: the girl is
still alive, and a great many persons who saw her
while she was in the state of apathy described, are
ready to satisfy the doubts of any one who will
take the trouble to inquire.’”*

Fad nity aah Rita a th a eee eee eee

* Mentor

229

The case which follows is from the Canton Gazette,
and is not less curious :—

‘On the western suburbs of Canton, a person
named Le bought as a slave-woman a girl named
Leaning. At the age of twenty-one, he sold her
to be a concubine to a man named Wong. She
had lived with him three years. About six months
ago, she became ill, in consequence of a large impos-
thume on her side, and on the 25th of the present
moon died. She was placed in a coffin, the lid of
which remained unfastened, to wait for her parents
to come and see the corpse, that they might be
satisfied she died a natural death. On the 28th,
while carrying the remains to be interred in the
north side of Canton, a noise or voice was heard
proceeding from the coffin; and, on removing the
covering, it was found the woman had come to life
again. She had been supposed dead for three
days.”

The case of Colonel Townsend, however, is much
more extraordinary than either of the above-men-
tioned. This gentleman possessed the remarkable
faculty of throwing himself into a trance at
pleasure. The heart ceased, apparently, to throb at
his bidding, respiration seemed at an end, his whole

frame assumed the icy chill and rigidity of death ;

230

while his face became colourless and shrunk, and
his eye fixed, glazed, and ghastly: even his mind
ceased to manifest itself; for during the trance it
was as utterly devoid of consciousness as his body
of animation. In this state he would remain for
hours, when these singular phenomena wore away;
and he returned to his usual condition. Medical
annals furnish no parallel to this extraordinary case.
Considered whether in a physiological or meta-
physical point of view, it is equally astonishing and
inexplicable.

A variety of stories are related of people having
had circumstances revealed to them in a trance, of
which they were ignorant when awake: most of
these tales have their origin in fiction, although
there is no reason why they may not be occasionally
true; as the mind, javeead of being in torpor, as is
very generally the case, may exist in a state analo-
gous to that of dreaming, and may thus, as in a
common dream, have long forgotten events impressed
upon it.

The following case exhibits a very singular
instance, in which the usual characteristic—a sus-
pension of the mental faculties—was wanting. It
seems to have been a most complete instance of

suspended volition, wherein the mind was active,

231

while the body refused to obey its impulses, and
continued in a state of apparent death.

« A young lady, an attendant on the Princess
, after having been confined to her bed, for

a great length of time, with a violent nervous dis-
order, was at last, to all appearance, deprived of
life. Her lips were quite pale, her face resembled
the countenance of a dead person, and the body
grew cold.

« She was removed from the room in which she
died, was laid in a coffin, and the day of her funeral
fixed on. The day arrived, and, according to the
custom of the country, funeral songs and hymns
were sung before the door. Just as the people were
about to nail on the lid of the coffin, a kind of per-
spiration was observed to appear on the surface of
her body. It grew greater every moment ; and at
last a kind of convulsive motion was observed in the
hands and feet of the corpse. A few minutes after,
during which time fresh signs of returning life
appeared, she at once opened her eyes and uttered
a most pitiable shriek. Physicians were quickly
procured, and in the course of a few days she
was considerably restored, and is probably alive at
this day.

“The description which she gave of her situation

232

is extremely remarkable, and forms a curious and
authentic addition to psychology.

‘¢ She said it seemed to her, as if in a dream, that
she was really dead; yet she was perfectly conscious
of all that happened around her in this dreadful
state. She distinctly heard her friends speaking,
and lamenting her death, at the side of her coffin.
She felt them pull on the dead-clothes, and lay her
in it. This feeling produced a mental anxiety,
which is indescribable. She tried to cry, but her
soul was without power, and could not act on her
bedy. She had the contradictory feeling as if she
were in her body, and yet not in it, at one and the
same time. It was equally impossible for her to
stretch out her arm, or to open her eyes, or to cry,
although she continually endeavoured to do so.
The internal anguish of her mind was, however, at
its utmost height when the funeral hymns began to
be sung, and when the lid of the coffin was about
to be nailed on. The thought that she was to be
buried alive, was the one that gave activity to her
soul, and caused it to operate on her corporeal
frame.” *

The following is different from either of the fore-

* « Psychological Magazine,” vol. v. part iii. page 15.

233

going; I have given it on account of its singularity,
although it does not altogether come under the
denomination of trance.

“ George Grokatzhi, a Polish soldier, deserted
from his regiment in the harvest of the year 1677.
He was discovered, a few days after, drinking and
making merry in a common ale-house. The mo-
ment he was apprehended, he was so much terrified,
that he gave a loud shriek, and was immediately
deprived of the power of speech, When brought
to a court-martial, it was impossible to make him
articulate a word; nay, he then became as immove-
able as a statue, and appeared not to be conscious
of any thing that was going forward. In the prison;
to which he was conducted, he neither ate nor
drank. The officers and priests at first threatened
him, and afterwards endeavoured to soothe and
calm him, but all their efforts were in vain. He
remained senseless and immoveable. His irons
were struck off, and he was taken out of the prison,
but he did not move. Twenty days and nights
were passed in this way, during which he took no

kind of nourishment; he then gradually sunk and

died.” *

* Bonetus, “ Medic Septentrion,” lib. i. sec. xvi. cap. 6.

234

It would be out of place to enter here into a
detail of the medical management of the first men-
tioned varieties of suspended animation, such as
drowning, strangulation, &c., &c.; and with regard
to the treatment of trance, preperly so called, a
very few words will suffice.

If we have reason to suppose that we know the
cause of the affection, that, of course, must be re-
moved whenever practicable. We must then em-
ploy stimuli to arouse the person from his torpor,
such as friction, the application of sternutatories
and volatile agents to the nostrils, and electricity.
The latter remedy is likely to prove a very power-
ful one, and should always be had recourse to
when other means fail. JI should think the warm
bath might be advantageously employed. When
even these remedies do not succeed, we must trust
to time. So long as the body does not run into
decay, after a case of suspended animation arising
without any very obvious cause, interment should
not take place; for it is possible that life may exist,
although, for the time being, there is every appear-
ance of its utter extinction. By neglecting this
rule, a person may be interred alive; nor can there
be a doubt that such dreadful mistakes have occa-

255

sionally been committed, especially in France, where
it is customary to inter the body twenty-four hours
after death. Decomposition is the only infallible
mark that existence is at an ead, and that the grave

has triumphed.

CHAPTER XIV.

ee

VOLUNTARY WAKING DREAMS.

ey

THE young and the imaginative are those who
indulge most frequently in waking dreams. The
scenes which life presents do not come up to the
desires of the heart; and the pencil of fancy is ac-
cordingly employed in depicting others more in
harmony with its own designs. Away into the
gloomy back-ground goes reality with its stern and
forbidding hues, and forward, in colours more daz-
zling than those of the rainbow, start the bright
and airy phantoms of imagination. “ How often,”
observes Dr. Good,* “waking to the roar of the

midnight tempest, while dull and gluttonous indo-

* Book of Nature, vol. iii, p. 422.

237

lence snores on in happy forgetfulness, does the
imagination of those who are thus divinely gifted
mount the dizzy chariot of the whirlwind, and pic-
ture evils that have no real existenee; now figuring
to herself some neat and thrifty cottage where
virtue delights to reside, she sees it swept away in
a moment by the torrent, and despoiled of the little
harvest just gathered in; now following the lone
traveller in some narrow and venturous pathway,
over the edge of the Alpine precipices, where a
single slip is instant destruction, she tracks him
alone by fitful flashes of lightning; and at length,
struck by the flash, she beholds him tumbling
headlong from rock to rock, to the bottom of the
dread abyss, the victim of a double death. Or
possibly she takes her stand on the jutting fore-
land of some bold, terrific coast, and eyes the foun-
dering vessel straight below; she mixes with the
spent and despairing crew; she dives into the cabin,
and singles out, perhaps from the rest, some lovely
maid, who, in all the bloom of recovered beauty, is
voyaging back to her native land from the healing
airs of a foreign climate, in thought just bounding
over the scenes of her youth, or panting in the
warm embraces of a father’s arms.” Such are

waking dreams; and there are few who, at some

238

happy moment or other, have not yielded to their
influence. Often under the burning clime of India,
or upon the lonely banks of the Mississippi, has
the stranger let loose the reins of his imagination,
calling up before him the mountains of his own be-
loved country, his native streams, and rocks and
valleys, so vividly, that he was transported back
into the midst of them, and lived over again the
days of his youth. Or the waking dream may
assume a more selfish character. If the individual
pines after wealth, his mind may be filled with visions
of future opulence. If he is young and unmarried,
he may conjure up the form of a lovely female,
may place her in a beautiful cottage by the banks
of some romantic stream, may love her with un-
fathomable affection, and become the fondest and
most happy of husbands. The more completely a
person is left to solitude, the more likely is his
imagination to indulge in such fancies. We seldom
build castles in the air in the midst of bustle, or
when we have any thing else to think of. Waking
dreams are the luxuries of an otherwise unem-
ployed mind—the aristocratic indulgences of the
intellect. As people get older and more conversant
with life in all its diversified features, they are little

inclined to indulge in such visions. They survey

239

events with the eye of severe truth, amuse them-
selves with no impracticable notions of fancied
happiness, and are inclined to take a gloomy, rather
than a flattering, view of the future. With youth-
ful and poetical minds, however, the case is widely
different. Much of that portion of their existence,
not devoted to occupation, is a constant dream.
They lull themselves into temporary happiness with
scenes which they know only to exist in their own
imagination ; but which are nevertheless so beauti-
ful, and so much in harmony with every thing their
souls desire, that they fondly clasp at the illusion,
and submit themselves unhesitatingly to its spell.
These curious states of mind may occur at any
time ; but the most common periods of their acces- °
sion are shortly after lying down, and shortly before
getting up. Men, especially young men, of vivid,
sanguine, imaginative temperaments, have dreams of
this kind almost every morning and night. Instead
of submitting to the sceptre of sleep, they amuse
themselves with creating a thousand visionary scenes.
Though broad awake, their judgment does not
exercise the slightest sway, and fancy is allowed to
become lord of the ascendant. Poets are notorious
castle-builders, and poems are, in fact, merely

waking dreams—at least their authors were under

240

the hallucination of such dreams while composing.
Milton’s mind, during the composition of Paradise
Lost, must have existed chiefly in the state of a
sublime waking dream; so must Raphael’s, while
painting the Sistine Chapel; and, Thorwaldson’s,
while designing the triumphs of Alexander. In
waking dreams, whatever emotion prevails bas a
character of exaggeration, at least in reference to
the existing condition of the individual. He sees
every thing through the serene atmosphere of ima-
gination, and imbues the most trite circumstances
with poetical colouring. The aspect, in short, which
things assume, bears a strong resemblance to that
impressed upon them by ordinary dreams, and
differs chiefly in this, that, though verging continu-
ally on the limits of extravagance, they seldom

transcend possibility.

CHAPTER XV.

SPECTRAL ILLUSIONS,

4
ee

OF the various faculties with which man is endowed,
those which bring him into communication with
the material world, constitute an important class.
The organs of these faculties—termed perceptive—
are situated in the middle and lower parts of the
forehead. Their function is to perceive and re-
member the existence, phenomena, qualities and
relations of external objects. Individuality takes
cognizance of the existence of material bodies;
Eventuality, of their motions or actions ; Form, of
their shape; Size, of their magnitude and propor-
tions; Weight, of the resistance which they offer to
a moving or restraining power ; Colouring, of their
colours; and Locality, of their relative position,
M

242

Time and Number perceive and remember duration
and numbers; Language takes cognizance of artifi-
cial signs of feeling and thought; and Order de-
lights in regularity and arrangement. In ordinary
circumstances, the mode of action of these organs
is this. If any object—a horse for example—be
placed before us, the rays of light reflected from
its surface to our eye, form a picture of the animal
upon the retina or back part of that organ. This
picture gives rise to what, for want of more precise
language, is called an impression, which is conveyed
by the optic nerve to the cerebral organs already
mentioned; and by them, im reality, the horse is
perceived. The eye and optic nerve, it will be ob-
served, do no more than transmit the impression
from without, so as to produce that state of the
internal organs which is accompanied by what is
termed perception or sensation. When the horse
is withdrawn, the impression still remains, to a cer-
tain extent, in the brain; and though the animal is
not actually perceived, we still remember its ap-
pearance, and can almost imagine that it is before
us, This faint semi-perception is called an idea,
and differs from sensation only in being less vivid.
The brain is more highly excited when it perceives

a sensation, than when an idea only is present ; be-

248

cause, in the former case, there is applied, through
the medium of the senses, a stimulus from without,
which, in the latter case, is not present. If, how-
ever, the brain be brought by internai causes to a
degree of excitement, which, in general, is the result
only of external impressions, ideas not less vivid
than sensations ensue; and the individual has the
same consciousness as if an impression were trans-
mitted from an actual object through the senses.
In other words, the brain, in a certain state, per-
ceives external bodies; and any cause which in-
duces that state, gives rise to a like perception,
independently of the usual cause—the presence of
external bodies themselves. The chief of these
internal causes is inflammation of the brain; and
when the organs of the perceptive faculties are so
excited—put into a state similar to that which
follows actual impressions from without—the result
is a series of false images or sounds, which are
often so vivid as to be mistaken for realities. During
sleep, the perceptive organs seem to be peculiarly
susceptible of such excitement. In dreaming, for
instance, the external world is inwardly represented
to our minds with all the force of reality: we speak
and hear as if we were in communication with ac-

tual existences. Spectral illusions are phenomena

244

strictly analogous; indeed, they are literally nothing
else than involuntary waking dreams.

In addition to the occasional cause of excitement
of the perceptive organs above alluded to, there is
another, the existence of which is proved by nume-
rous facts, though its mode of action is somewhat ob-
scure. I allude to a large development of the organ
of Wonder. Individuals with such a development are
both strongly inclined to believe in the supernatur-
ality of ghosts, and peculiarly liable to be visited by
them. This organ is large im the head of Earl Grey,
and he is said to be haunted by the apparition of a
bloody head. Dr. Gall mentions, that in the head
of Dr. Jung Stilling, who saw visions, the organ
was very largely developed. A gentleman who
moves in the best society in Paris, once asked Gall
to examine his head. The Doctor's first remark
was, “ You sometimes see visions, and believe in
apparitions.” The gentleman started from his chair
in astonishment, and said that he had frequent
visions; but never till that moment had he spoken
on the subject to any human being, through fear of
being set down as absurdly credulous. How a
large development of Wonder produces the neces-
sary excitement of the perceptive organs is unknown,

but the fact seems indisputable.

245

In former times, individuals who beheld visions,
instead of ascribing them to a disordered state of
the brain, referred them to outward impressions, and
had a false conviction of the presence of super-
natural beings. Hence the universal belief in ghosts
which in these periods prevailed, even among the
learned, and from which the illiterate are not yet
entirely exempt.

We read in history of people being attended by
familiar spirits: such was the case with Socrates
in ancient, and with the poet Tasso, in modern
times; their familiar spirits were merely spectral
illusions. “ At Bisaccio, near Naples,” says Mr.
Hoole, in his aceount of the illustrious author of
the Jerusalem Delivered, “ Manso had an oppor-
tunity of examining the singular effects of Tasso’s
melancholy, and often disputed him concerning a
familiar spirit which he pretended conversed with
him: Manso endeavoured in vain to persuade his
friend that the whole was the illusion of a disturbed
imagination ; but the latter was strenuous in main-
taining the reality of what he asserted, and to
convince Manso, desired him to be present at one
of the mysterious conversations. Manso had the
complaisance to meet him next day, and while they

were engaged in discourse, on a sudden he observed

246

that Tasso kept his eyes fixed on a window, and
remained in a manner immoveable: he called him
by his name, but received no answer ; at last Tasso
cried out, ‘ There is the friendly spirit that is come
to converse with me; look! and you will be con-
vinced of all I have said.’

«¢ Manso heard him with surprise; he looked, but
saw nothing except the sunbeams darting through
the window; he cast his eyes all over the room,
but could perceive nothing ; and was just going to
ask where the pretended spirit was, when he heard
Tasso speak with great earnestness, sometimes
putting questions to the spirit, sometimes giving
answers; delivering the whole in such a pleasing
manner, and in such elevated expressions, that he
listened with admiration, and had not the least
inclination to interrupt him. At last the uncom-
mon conversation ended with the departure of the
spirit, as appeared by Tasso’s own words, who,
turning to Manso, asked him if his doubts were
removed. Manso was more amazed than ever ; he
scarce knew what to think of his friend’s situation,
and waived any farther conversation on the sub-
ject.”

The visions of angels, and the communications

from above, with which religious enthusiasts are

247

often impressed, arise from the operation of spectral
illusions. They see forms and hear sounds which
have no existence ; and, believing in the reality of
such impressions, consider themselves highly favour-
ed by the Almighty. These feelings prevailed very
much during the persecutions in Scotland. Nothing
was more common than for the Covenanter by the
lonely hill side to have what he supposed a special
message from God, and even to see the angel who
brought it standing before him, and encouraging
him to steadfastness in his religious principles.
Much of the crazy fanaticism exhibited by the dis-
ciples of Campbell and Irving, undoubtedly arises
from a similar cause; and it is probable that both
of these individuals see visions and hear superna-
tural voices, as well as many of their infatuated
followers.

Various causes may so excite the brain as to
produce these phantasmata, such as great mental
distress, sleeplessness, nervous irritation, religious
excitement, fever, epilepsy, opium, delirium tre-
mens, excessive study, and dyspepsia. I have
known them to arise without the apparent con-
currence of any mental or bodily distemper. I
say apparent, for it is very evident there must be

some functional derangement, however much it may

248

be hidden from observation. An ingenious friend
has related to me a case of this kind which occurred
in his own person. One morning, while lying in bed
broad awake, and, as he supposed, in perfect health,
the wall opposite to him appeared to open at its junc-
tion with the ceiling, and ont of the aperture came a
little uncouth, outlandish figure, which descended from
the roof, squatted upon his breast, grinned at him
maliciously, and seemed as if pinching and pum-
melling his sides. This illusion continued for some
time, and with a timorous subject might have been
attended with bad consequences ; but he referred it
at once to some disordered state of the stomach under
which he imagined he must have laboured atthe time,
although he had no direct consciousness of any such
derangement of this organ. The same gentleman has
related to me the case of one of his friends which
attracted much notice at the time it happened,
from the melancholy circumstances that attended it.
It is an equally marked instance of hallucination
arising without the individual being conscious of
any physical cause by which it might be occasioned.
It is as follows :-—

Mr. H. was one day walking along the street,

apparently in perfect health, when he saw, or sup-

posed he saw, his acquaintance, Mr. C., walking

249
before him. He called aloud to the latter, who,
however, did not seem to hear him, but continued
moving on. Mr. H. then quickened his pace for
the purpose of overtaking him; the other increased
his also, as if to keep ahead of his pursuer, and
proceeded at such a rate that Mr. H. found it
impossible to make up to him. This continued for
some time, till, on Mr. C. coming to a gate, he
opened it, passed in, and slammed it violently in
Mr H.’s face. Confounded at such treatment, the
latter instantly opened the gate, looked down the
long lane into which it led, and, to his astonishment,
no one was visible. Determined to unravel the
mystery, he went to Mr. C.’s house; and what was
his surprise when he learned that he was confined
to bed, and had been so for several days. A week
or two afterwards, these gentlemen chanced to meet
in the house of a common friend, when Mr. H. men-
tioned the circumstance, and told Mr. C. jocularly
that he had seen his wraith, and that, as a natural
consequence, he would soon be a dead man. ‘The
person addressed laughed heartily, as did the rest
of the company, but the result turned out to be no
laughing matter; for, in a very few days, Mr. C.

was attacked with putrid sore throat, and died; and
M 2

250

within a very short period of his death Mr. H. was
also in the grave.

Some of the most vivid instances of spectral illu-
sion are those induced by opium. Several of the
“English Opium-Eater’s” visions were doubtless
of this nature. Dr. Abercrombie relates a striking
instance of the kind which occurred to the late Dr.
Gregory. “He had gone to the north country by
sea to visit a lady, a near relation, in whom he felt
deeply interested, and who was in an advanced state »
of consumption. In returning from the visit, he
had taken a moderate dose of laudanum, with the
view of preventing sea-sickness, and was lying on a
couch im the cabin, when the figure of the lady ap-
peared before him in so distinct a manner that her
actual presence could not have been more vivid.
He was quite awake, and fully sensible that it was
a phantasm produced by the opiate, along with. his
intense mental feeling; but he was unable by any
effort to banish the vision.”* Indeed, any thing
on which the mind dwells excessively may, by ex-
citing the perceptive organs, give rise to spectral

illusions. It is to this circumstance that the bereaved

* Inquiries concerning the Intellectual Powers, p. 357.

251

husband sees the image of a departed wife, to whom
he was fondly attached—that the murderer is haunt-
ed by the apparition of his victim—and that the
living with whom we are familiar seem to be pre-
sented before our eyes, although at a distance from
us. Dr. Conolly relates the case of a gentleman, who,
when ia danger of being wrecked near the Eddy-
stone lighthouse, saw the images of his whole family.

These illusive appearances sometimes occur dur-
ing convalescence from diseases. In the summer of
1832, a gentleman in Glasgow, of dissipated habits,
was seized with cholera, from which he recovered.
His recovery was unattended with any thing parti-
cular, except the presence of phantasmata—con-
sisting of human figures about three feet high, neatly
dressed in pea-green jackets, and knee-breeches of
the same colour. Being a person ‘of a superior
mind, and knowing the cause of the illusions, they
gave him no alarm, althongh he was very often
haunted by them. As he advanced in strength the
phantoms appeared less frequently, and diminished
in size, till at last they were not taller than his
finger. One night, while seated alone, a multitude
of these Lilliputian gentlemen made their appear-
ance on his table, and favoured him with a dance;

but being at the time otherwise engaged, and in no

252

mood to enjoy such an amusement, he lost temper
at the unwelcome intrusion of his pigmy visitors,
and striking his fist violently upon the table, he
exclaimed, in a violent passion, “Get about your
business you little impertinent rascals! What the
devil are you doing here?” when the whole assem-
bly instantly vanished, and he was never troubled
with them more.

It generally happens that the figures are no less
visible when the eyes are closed than when they
are open. An individual in the west of Scotland,
whose case is related in the Phrenological Journal,*
whenever he shut his eyes or was in darkness, saw
a procession move before his mind as distinctly as
it had previously done before his eyes. Some
years ago, a farmer from the neighbourhood of
Hamilton informed me, with feelings of great horror,
that he had frequently the vision of a hearse drawn
by four black horses, which were driven by a black
driver. Not knowing the source of this illusion
he was rendered extremely miserable by it; and,
to aggravate his unhappiness, was regarded by the
ignorant country people, to whom he told the story,

as having been guilty of some grievous crime. This

* Vol, ii. p, 111.

258

vision was apparent to him chiefly by night, and the
effect was the same whether his eyes were open or
shut. Indeed, so little are these illusions dependant
on sight, that the blind are frequently subject to them.
A respected elderly gentleman, a patient of my own,
who was afflicted with loss of sight, accompanied by
violent headachs and severe dyspeptic symptoms,
used to have the image of a black cat presented
before him, as distinctly as he could have seen it
before he became blind. He was troubled with
various other spectral appearances, besides being
subject to illusions of sound equally remarkable ;
for he had often the consciousness of hearing music
so strongly impressed upon him, that it was with
difficulty his friends could convince him it was
purely ideal.

Considering the age in which Bayle lived, his
notions of the true nature of spectral illusions were
wonderfully acute and philosophical. Indeed, he
has so well described the theory of apparitions, that ,
the modern phrenological doctrine on this point
seems little more than an expanded version of his
own. ‘A man,” says he, “ would not only be very
rash, but also very extravagant, who should pretend
to prove that there never was any person that ima-

gined he saw a spectre; and I do not think that the

254

most obstinate and extravagant unbelievers have
maintained this. All they say, comes to this: that
the persons who have thought themselves eye-wit-
nesses of the apparition of spirits had a disturbed ima-
gination. They confess that there are certain places
in our brain that, being affected in a certain manner,
excite the image of an object which has no real existence
out of ourselves, and make the man, whose brain is
thus modified, believe he sees, at two paces distant,
a frightful spectre, a hobgoblin, a threatening phan-
tom. The like happens in the heads of the most
incredulous, either in their sleep, or in the paroxysms
of a violent fever. Will they maintain after this,
that it is impossible for a man awake, and not in a
delirium, to receive, in certain places of his brain, an
impression almost like that which, by the law of
nature, is connected with the appearance of a phan-
tom.” In one of Shenstone’s Essays, entitled “ An
Opinion of Ghosts,” the same theory is clearly
enunciated.

It is worthy of remark, that the phenomena of
apparitions are inconsistent with the prevalent
theory that the brain is a single organ, with every
part of which each faculty is connected. Were this
theory sound, the same cause that vivifies the per-

ceptive faculties must also vivify, or excite to in-

255

creased action, the propensities, sentiments, and re-
flecting powers. This, however, is by no means
the case.

The case of Nicolai, the Prussian bookseller,
which occurred in the beginning of 1791, is one of
the most remarkable instances of spectral illusion
on record. “I saw,” says he, “ in a state of mind
completely sound, and—after the first terror was
over—with perfect calmness, for nearly two months,
almost constantly and involuntarily, a vast number
of human and other forms, and even heard their
voices, though all this was merely the consequence of
a diseased state of the nerves, and an irregular cir-
culation of the blood.” “ When I shut my eyes,
these phantasms would sometimes vanish entirely,
though there were instances when I beheld them
with my eyes closed; yet when they disappeared on
such occasions, they generally returned when I
opened my eyes. I conversed sometimes with my
physician and my wife of the phantasms which at
the moment surrounded me; they appeared more
frequently walking than at rest; nor were they
constantly present. They frequently did not come
for some time, but always reappeared for a longer
or shorter period either singly or in company, the
latter, however, being most frequently the case. I

256

generally saw human forms of both sexes; but they
usually seemed not to take the smallest notice of
each other, moving as in a market-place, where all
are eager to press through the crowd; at times,
however, they seemed to be transacting business
with each other. I also saw, several times, people
on horseback, dogs and birds. All these phantasms
appeared to me in their natural size, and as distinct
as if alive, exhibiting different shades of carnation
in the uncovered parts, as well as in different colours
and fashions in their dresses, though the colours
seemed somewhat paler than in real nature; none
of the figures appeared particularly terrible, comical
or disgusting, most of them being of an indifferent
shape, and some presenting a pleasing aspect.”
Perhaps the most remarkable visionary, of whom
we have any detailed account, was Blake the painter.
This extraordinary man not only believed in his
visions, but could often call up at pleasure what-
ever phantasms he wished to see; and so far from
their being objects of annoyance, he rather solicited
than wished to avoid their presence. He was in
the habit of conversing with angels, demons and
heroes, and taking their likenesses ; for they proved
most obedient sitters, and never showed any aver-

sion to allow him to transfer them to paper.

257

« His mind,” says Mr. Cunningham, “ could con-
vert the most ordinary occurrences into something
mystical and supernatural.” <<‘ Did you ever see
a fairy’s funeral, Madam?’ he once said to a lady
who happened to sit by him in company, ‘ Never,
Sir!’ was the answer. ‘I have,’ said Blake,
‘but not before last night. I was walking alone
in my garden, there was great stillness among
the branches and flowers, and more than common
sweetness in the air; I heard a low and pleasant
sound, and knew not whence it came. At last I
saw the broad leaf of a flower move, and under-
neath I saw a procession of creatures of the size
and colour of green and grey grasshoppers, bear-
ing a body laid out on a rose leaf, which they
buried with songs, and then disappeared. It was a
fairy funeral.” On being asked to draw the like-
ness of Sir William Wallace, that hero immediately
stood before him, and he commenced taking his
portrait. ‘“ Having drawn for some time with the
same care of hand and steadiness of eye, as if a
living sitter had been before him, Blake stopped
suddenly and said, ‘ I cannot finish him—Hdward
the First has stept in between him and me.’ ‘ That's
lucky,’ said his friend, ‘ for I want the portrait of

Edward too.’ Blake took another sheet of paper

258

and sketched the features of Plantagenet; upon
which his majesty politely vanished, and the artist
finished the head of Wallace.’* The greater part
of his life was passed in beholding visions and in
drawing them. On one occasion he saw the ghost
of a flea and took a sketch of it. No conception
was too strange or incongruous for his wild imagi-
nation, which totally overmastered his judgment,
and made him mistake the chimeras of an excited
brain for realities.

What is called the Second Sight oviginated, in
most cases, from spectral illusions; and the seers of
whom we so often read, were merely individuals
visited by these phantoms. The Highland moun-
tains, and the wild lawless habits of those who
inhabited them, were peculiarly adapted to foster
the growth of such impressions in imaginative
minds; and, accordingly, nothing was more com-
mon than to meet with persons who not only
fancied they saw visions, but, on the strength of
this belief, laid claim to the gift of prophecy. The

more completely the mind is abstracted from the

x Cunningham’s Lives of the British Painters, Sculptors,
and Architects, vol. ii., Life of Blake,

259

bustle of life; the more solitary the district in which
the individual resides; and the more romantic and
awe-inspiring the scenes that pass before his eyes,
the greater is his tendency to see visions, and to
place faith in what he sees. A man, for instance,
with the peculiar temperament which predisposes
to see, and believe in, spectral illusions, is informed
that his chieftain and clan have set out on a dan-
gerous expedition. Full of the subject, he forces
their images before him—sees them engaged in
fight—beholds his chieftain cut down by the clay-
more of an enemy—the clansmen routed and dis-
persed, their houses destroyed, their cattle carried
off, This vision he relates to certain individuals.
If, as is not unlikely, it is borne out by the event,
his prophecy is spread far and wide, and looked
upon as an instance of the second sight; while,
should nothing happen, the story is no more
thought of by those to whom it was communicated.
In some instances, it is probable that the accidental
fulfilment of an ordinary dream was regarded as
Second Sight.

The belief in fairies, no doubt, had also its origin
in spectral illusions. In the days of ignorance and

superstition nothing was more easy than for an

260

excited brain to conjure up those tiny forms, and see
them perform their gambols upon the green sward
beneath the light of the moon.

The dimensions of the figures which are exhibited
in spectral illusions vary exceedingly. Sometimes
they appear as miniatures, sometimes of the size of
life, at other times of colossal proportions. The
same differences apply to their colour. In one case
they are pale, misty, transparent ; in another black,
red, blue or green. Sometimes we have them
fantastically clothed in the costume of a former
age, sometimes in that of our own. Now they
are represented grinning, now weeping, now in
smiles. “ White or grey ghosts,” says Mr. Simp-
son, “result from excited Form, with quiescent
Colouring, the transparent cobweb effect being
colourless. Pale spectres, and shadowy yet coloured
forms, are the effect of partially excited Colouring.
Tall ghosts and dwarf goblins, are the illusions of
over-excited Size.” The jabbering of apparitions
arises from an excited state of that part of the brain
which gives us cognizance of sounds. This expla-
nation seems highly probable, or rather quite satis-
factory. There are points, however, which it is
likely no one will ever be able to explain. Why,
for instance, should the disordered brain conjure up

261

persons and. faces rather than érees and houses ? why
should a ghost be dressed in red rather than blue,
and why should it smile rather than grin? These
are minutize beyond the reach of investigation, at
least in the present state of our knowledge.

Mr. Simpson, in the second volume of the
Phrenological Journal, has published a case of
spectral illusion, which, for singularity and interest,
equals any thing of the same kind which has hitherto
been recorded. The subject of it was a young
lady under twenty years of age, of good family, well
educated, free from any superstitious fears, in per-
fect bodily health and of sound mind. She was early
subject to occasional attacks of such illusions, and
the first she remembered was that of a carpet which
descended in the air before her, then vanished
away. After an interval of some years, she began
to see human figures in her room as she lay wide
awake in bed. These figures were whitish or rather
grey, and transparent like cobweb, and generally
above the size of life. At this time she had acute
headachs, very singularly confined to one small spot
of the head. On being asked to indicate the spot,
she touched, with her fore-finger and thumb, each
side of the root of the nose, the commencement of

the eyebrows, and the spot immediately over the

262
top of the nose, the ascertained seats of Form, Size,
and Lower Individuality. On being asked if the
pain was confined to these spots, she answered that
some time afterwards it extended to the right and
left, along the eyebrows, and a little above them,
and completely round the eyes, which felt as if they
would burst from their sockets. On this taking
place the visions varied. T he organs of Weight,
Colouring, Order, Number and Locality, were affected,
and the phantasmata assumed a change correspond-
ing to the irritated condition of these parts. “The
whitish or cobweb spectres assumed the natural
colour of the objects, but they continued often to
present themselves, though not always, above the
size of life.” “ Colouring being over-excited, began
to occasion its specific and fantastical illusions.
Bright spots, like stars on a back ground, filled the
room in the dark, and even in day-light; and sudden,
and sometimes gradual, illumination of the room
during the night took place, so that the furniture
in it became visible. Innumerable balls of fire
seemed one day to pour like a torrent out of one of
the rooms of the house down the staircase. On
one occasion, the pain between the eyes, and along
the lower ridge of the brow, struck her suddenly
with great violence—when, instantly, the room filled

263

with stars and bright spots. On attempting, on
that occasion, to go to bed, she said she was con-
scious of an inability to balance herself, as if she had
been tipsy, and she fell, having made repeated efforts
to seize the bed-post; which, in the most unaccount-
able manner eluded her grasp by shifting us place,
and also by presenting her with a number of bed-
posts instead of one. Tf the organ of Weight, situated
between Size and Colouring, be the organ of the
instinct to preserve, and power of preserving, equi-
librium, it must be the necessary consequence of
the derangement of that organ to overset the
balance of the person. Over-excited Number we
should expect to produce multiplication of objects,
and the first experience she had of this illusion,
was the multiplication of the bed-posts, and subse-
quently of any inanimate object she looked at.”
“For nearly two years, Miss 8. L. was free
from her frontal headachs, and—mark the coinci-
dence—untroubled by visions or any other illusive
perceptions. Some months ago, however, all her
distressing symptoms returned in great aggrava-
tion, when she was conscious of a want of health.
“The pain was more acute than before along the
frontal bone, and round and in the eyeballs; and all

the organs there situated recommenced their game

264

of illusion. Single figures of absent and deceased
friends were terribly real to her, both in the day
and in the night, sometimes cobweb, but generally
coloured. She sometimes saw friends on the street,
who proved phantoms when she approached to
speak to them; and instances occurred, where, from
not having thus satisfied herself of the illusion, she
affirmed to such friends that she had seen them in
certain places, at certain times, when they proved
to her the clearest alibi. The confusion of her
spectral forms now distressed her.—( Order affected. )
The oppression and perplexity were intolerable,
when figures presented themselves before her in
inextricable disorder, and still more when they
changed—as with Nicolai—from whole figures to
parts of figures—faces and half faces, and limbs—
sometimes of inordinate size and dreadful deformity.
One instance of illusive Disorder, which she men-
tioned, is curious; and has the farther effect of
exhibiting (what cannot be put in terms except those
of) the derangement of the just perception of gravi-
tation or equilibrium. ( Weight.) One night as she
sat in her bed-room, and was about to go to bed, a
stream of spectres, persons’ faces, limbs, in the most
shocking confusion, seemed to her to pour into her

room from the window, in the manner of a cascade !

265

Although the cascade continued, apparently, in
rapid descending motion; there was no accumula-
tion of figures in the room, the supply unaccount-
ably vanishing, after having formed the cascade.
Colossal figures are her frequent visiters. ( Size.)”
In the fifth volume of the Phrenological Journal,
page 319, a case is mentioned where the patient
was tortured with horrid faces glaring at her, and
approaching close to her in every possible aggrava-
tion of horror. “She was making a tedious re-
covery in child-bed when these symptoms troubled
her. Besides the forms, which were of natural
colour, though often bloody, she was perplexed by
their variation in size, from colossal to minute.
She saw also entire human figures, but they were
always as minute as pins, or even pin-heads, and
were in great confusion and numbers.’ « She
described the pain which accompanied her illusions,
viz, acute pain in the upper part or root of the
nose, the seat of the organ of Form, and all along
the eyebrows, which takes in Individuality, Form,
Size, Weight, Colouring, Order and Number.” In
the same volume, page 430, Mr Levison relates,
that on asking an individual who saw apparitions,
whether or not he felt pain at any part of his head,

he answered, “that every time before he experi-
N

266

enced this peculiar power of seeing figures, he in-
variably felt pain in and between his eyes, and, in
short, all over the eyebrows.” It does not appear,
however, that pain is universally felt in such cases
in the lower part of the forehead. Dr. Andrew
Combe informs me that, so far as he has observed,
the pain, when it does exist, is more frequently in
the exciting organ, generally Wonder.

Spectral illusions constitute the great pathogno-
monic sign of delirium tremens. In this disease they
are usually of a horrible, a disgusting, or a fright-
ful nature; the person being irresistibly impressed
with the notion that reptiles, insects, and all manner
of vermin are crawling upon him, which he is con-
stantly endeavouring to pick off—that he is haunted
by hideous apparitions—that people are in the room
preparing to murder and rob him, and so forth. In
the following case, with which I have been favoured
by Dr. Combe, the illusive appearances were of a
more pleasing kind than generally happen. “Ina
case,” says he, ‘of delirium tremens m an inn-keeper,
about whom I was consulted, the spectral illusions
continued several days, and had a distinct reference to
a large and active cerebellum, (the organ of Amative-
ness) conjoined with Wonder. The man refused to

allow me to look at a blister which had been placed

267

between his shoulders, ‘ because he could not take
off his coat before the ladies who were in the room?
When I assured him that there was nobody in the
room, he smiled at the joke, as he conceived it to be,
and, in answer to my questions, described them as
several in number, well dressed, and good-looking.
At my request he rose up to shake hands with
them, and was astonished at finding them elude
his grasp, and his hand strike the wall. This,
however, convinced him that it was an illusion, and
he forthwith took off his coat, but was unwilling to
converse longer on the subject. In a few days the
ladies vanished from his sight.” |

' Spectral illusions are more frequently induced by
fever than by any other cause. Indeed, the pre-
monitory stages of most fevers are accompanied by
illusive appearances of one kind or another, such as
luminous bodies, especially when the eyes are shut,
hideous faces, streaks of fire, &c.; and in the ad-
vanced stages they are not uncommon. <A medi-
cal friend has informed me, that when ill of fever
in Portugal, he was terribly harrassed by the
vision of a soldier, whose picture was hanging in
the room. Removing the picture failed to dissipate
the illusion, which did not disappear till he was

conveyed to another apartment. Dr. Bostock, while

268

under a febrile attack, was visited by spectral illu-
sions of an unusual kind. The following are the
particulars of his case, as described by himself :—
«“ T was labouring,” says he, “ under a fever, at-
tended with symptoms of general debility, especially
of the nervous system, and with a severe pain of
the head, which was confined to a small spot situated
above the right temple. After having passed a
sleepless night, and being reduced to a state of con-
siderable exhaustion, I first perceived figures pre-
senting themselves before me, which I immediately
recognised as similar to those described by Nicolai,
and upon which, as I was free from delirium, and
as they were visible about three days and nights
with little intermission, I was able to make my
observations. There were two circumstances which
appeared to me very remarkable; first, that the
spectral appearances always followed the motion of
the eyes; and, secondly, that the objects which
were the best defined and remained the longest
visible, were such as I had no recollection of ever
having previously seen. For about twenty-four
hours I had constantly before me a human figure,
the features and dress of which were as distinctly
visible as that of any real existence, and of which,

after an interval of many years, I still retain the

269

most lively impression ; yet, neither at the time nor
since have I been able to discover any person whom
I had previously seen who resembled it.

“During one part of this disease, after the dis-
appearance of this stationary phantom, I had a very
singular and amusing imagery presented to me. It
appeared as if a number of objects, principally
human faces or figures on a small scale, were placed
before me, and gradually removed like a succession
of medallions. They were all of the same size, and
appeared to be all situated at the same distance from
the face. After one had been seen for a few minutes,
it became fainter, and then another, which was more
vivid, seemed to be laid upon it or substituted in its
place, which, in its turn, was superseded by a new
appearance. During all this succession of scenery, I
do not recollect that, in a single instance, I saw any
object with which I had been previously acquainted,
nor, as far as [ am aware, were the representations
of any of those objects, with which my mind was the
most occupied at other times, presented to me; they
appeared to be invariably new creations, or, at
least, new combinations of which I could not trace
the original materials.” *

The following very curious instance, is not less

* Bostock’s Physiology, vol. iii. p. 204.

270

interesting: the subject of it was a member of the
English bar.

‘In December, 1823, A. was confined to his bed
by inflammation of the chest, and was supposed by
his medical attendant to be in considerable danger.
One night, while unable to sleep from pain and
fever, he saw, sitting on a chair, on the left side of
his bed, a female figure which he immediately re-
cognized to be that of a young lady who died about
two years before. His first feeling was surprise,
and perhaps a little alarm; his second, that he was
suffering from delirium. With this impression, he
put his head under the bed-clothes, and, after trying
in vain to sleep, as a test of the soundness of his
mind, he went through a long and complicated pro-
cess of metaphysical reasoning. He then peeped
out and saw the figure in the same situation and
position. He had a fire, but would not allow a
candle or nurse in the room. A stick was kept by
his side to knock for the nurse when he required
her attendance. Being. too weak to move his body,
he endeavoured to touch the figure with the stick,
but, on a real object being put upon the chair, the
imaginary one disappeared, and was not visible
again that night.

«“ The next day he thought of little but the vision,

271

and expected its return without alarm, and with
some pleasure. He was not disappointed. It took the
same place as before, and he employed himself in
observations. When he shut his eyes or turned
his head, he ceased to see the figure; by interposing
his hand he could hide part of it ; and it was shown,
like any mere material substance, by the rays of
the fire which fell upon and were reflected from it.
As the fire declined it became less perceptible, and
as it went out, invisible. A similar appearance
took place on several other nights; but it became
less perceptible, and its visits less frequent, as the
patient recovered from his fever.

“ He says the impressions on his mind were
always pleasing, as the spectre looked at him with
calmness and regard. He never supposed it real ;
but was unable to account for it on any philoso-
phical principles within his knowledge.

“In the autumn of 1825, A.’s health was per-
fectly restored, and he had been free from any
waking vision for nearly eighteen months. Some
circumstances occurred which produced in him great
mental excitement. One morning he dreamed of
the figure, which stood by his side in an angry
posture, and asked for a locket which he usually

wore. He awoke and saw it at the toilet, with the

272

locket in its hand. He rushed out of bed and it
instantly disappeared. During the next six weeks
its visits were incessant, and the sensations which
they produced were invariably horrible. Some
years before, he had attended the dissection of a
woman in a state of rapid decomposition. Though
much disgusted at the time, the subject had been
long forgotten; but was recalled by the union of
its putrescent body with the spectre’s features. The
visits were not confined to the night, but frequently
occurred while several persons were in the same
room. They were repeated at intervals during the
winter; but he was able to get rid of them by
moving or sitting im an erect position. Though
well, his pulse was hard, and generally from 90 to
100,"%

In March, 1829, during an attack of fever, ac-
companied with violent action in the brain, I ex-
perienced illusions of a very peculiar kind. They
did not appear except when the eyes were shut or
the room perfectly dark; and this was one of the
most distressing things connected with my illness;
for it obliged me either to keep my eyes open or

to admit more light into the chamber than they

* Phrenological Journal, vol. v. p. 210.

2735
could well tolerate. I had the consciousness of
shining and hideous faces grinning at me in the
midst of profound darkness, from which they glared
forth in horrid and diabolical relief. They were
never stationary, but kept moving in the gloomy
back ground: sometimes they approached within
an inch or two of my face: at other times, they re-
ceded several feet or yards from it. They would
frequently break into fragments, which after floating
about would unite—portions of one face coalescing
with those of another, and thus forming still more
uncouth and abominable images. The only way I
could get rid of those phantoms was by admitting
more light into the chamber and opening the eyes,
when they instantly vanished; but only to reappear
when the room was darkened or the eyes closed.
One night, when the fever was at its height, I had
a splendid vision of a theatre, in the arena of which
Ducrow, the celebrated equestrian, was performing.
On this occasion, I had no consciousness of a dark
back ground like to that on which the monstrous
images floated; but every thing was gay, bright
and beautiful. I was broad awake, my eyes were
closed, and yet I saw with perfect distinctness the
whole scene going on in the theatre—Ducrow per-

forming his wonders of horsemanship—and the
N2

274

assembled multitude, among whom I recognized
several intimate friends; in short, the whole process
of the entertainment as clearly as if I were present
at it. When I opened my eyes, the whole scene
vanished like the enchanted palace of the necro-
mancer; when I closed them, it as instantly re-
turned. But though I could thus dissipate the
spectacle, I found it impossible to get rid of the
accompanying music. This was the grand march in
the Opera of Aladdin, and was performed by the
orchestra with more superb and imposing effect,
and with greater loudness, than I ever heard it be-—
fore: it was executed, indeed, with tremendous
energy. This air I tried every effort to dissipate,
by forcibly endeavouring to call other tunes to
mind, but it was in vain. However completely the
vision might be dispelled, the music remained in
spite of every effort to banish it. During the whole
of this singular state, I was perfectly aware of the
ilusiveness of my feelings, and, though labouring
under violent headach, could not help speculating
upon them and endeavouring to trace them to their
proper cause. This theatrical vision continued for
about five hours; the previous delusions for a couple
of days. The whole evidently proceeded from such
an excited state of some parts of the brain, as I

275

have already alluded to. Jdeality, Wonder, Forni,
Colour and Size, were all in intensely active opera-
tion, while the state of the reflecting organs was
unchanged, Had the latter participated in the
general excitement, to such an extent as to be un-
able to rectify the false impressions of the other
organs, the case would have been one of pure
delirium.

Spectral illusions can only be cured by removing
the causes which give rise to them. If they pro-
ceed from the state of the stomach, this must be
rectified by means of purgatives and alterative medi-
eines. Should plethora induce them, local or
general blood-letting and other antiphlogistic means
are requisite. If they accompany fever or delirium
tremens, their removal will, of course, depend upon
that of these diseases. Arising from sleeplessness,
they will sometimes be cured. by anodynes; and
from nervous irritation, by the shower bath and
tonics. Where they seem to arise without any
apparent cause, our attention should be directed to
the state of the bowels, and blood-letting had re-
course to.

CHAPTER XVI.

REVERIE.

A STATE of mind somewhat analogous to that which
prevails in dreaming, also takes place during reverie.
There is the same want of balance in the faculties,
which are almost equally ill regulated, and disposed
to indulge in similar extravagancies. Reverie pro-
ceeds from an unusual quiescence of the brain, and
inability of the mind to direct itself strongly to any
one point: it is often the prelude of sleep. There is a
defect in the attention, which, instead of being fixed
on one subject, wanders over a thousand, and even
on these is feebly and ineffectively directed. We
sometimes see this while reading, or, rather, while
attempting to read. We get over page after page,
but the ideas take no hold whatever upon us: we

277

are in truth ignorant of what we peruse, and the
mind is either an absolute blank, or vaguely ad-
dressed to something else. This feeling every
person must have occasionally noticed in taking out
his watch, looking at it, and replacing it without
knowing what the hour was. In like manner he
may hear what is said to him without attaching
any meaning to the words, which strike his ear, yet
communicate no definite idea to the sensorium. Per-
sons in this mood may, from some ludicrous ideas
flashing across them, burst into a loud fit of laugh-
ter during sermon or at a funeral, and thus get
the reputation of being either grossly irreverent
or deranged. That kind of reverie in which the
mind is nearly divested of all ideas, and approxi-
mates closely to the state of sleep, I have sometimes
experienced while gazing long and intently upon
ariver. The thoughts seem to glide away, one by
one, upon the surface of the stream, till the mind
is emptied of them altogether. In this state we
see the glassy volume of the water moving past us,
and hear its murmur, but lose all power of fixing our
attention definitively upon any subject; and either
fall asleep, or are aroused by some spontaneous reac-
tion of the mind, or by some appeal to the senses

sufficiently strong to startle us from our reverie.

278

Grave, monotonous, slowly-repeated sounds—as of
a mill, a waterfall, an Eolian harp, or the voice of
a dull orator, have the effect of lulling the brain
into repose, and giving rise to a pleasing melan-
choly, and to calmness and inanity of mind. Uni-
form gentle motions have a tendency to produce a
similar state of reverie, which is also very apt to
ensue in the midst of perfect silence: hence, in
walking alone in the country where there is no
sound to distract our meditations, we frequently
get into this state. It is also apt to take place
when we are seated without books, companions,
or amusement of any kind, by the hearth on a
winter evening, especially when the fire is begin-
ning to burn out, when the candles are becoming
faint for want of topping, and a dim religious light,
like that filling a hermit’s cell from his solitary
lamp, is diffused over the apartment. This is the
situation most favourable for reveries, waking
dreams, and all kinds of brown study, abstraction,
ennui, and hypochondria.

Reverie has been known to arise from the mind
sustaining temporary weakness, in consequence of
long and excessive application to one subject. It
is also, I believe, frequently induced by forcing
young people to learn what they dislike. In this

279

case, the mind, finding it impossible to direct itself
to the hated task, goes wandering off in another
direction, and thus acquires a habit of inattention,
which, in extreme cases, may terminate in imbe- °
cility. Sometimes reverie arises from peculiarity
of temperament, either natural or induced by men-
tal or bodily weakness. The best regulated minds
and strongest bodies, may, however, and, in fact,
often have, occasional attacks; but when the feeling
grows into a habit, and is too much indulged in, it
is apt to injure the usefulness of the individual, and
impair the whole fabric of his understanding. « It
is,” says Dr. Good, “ upon the faculty of attention
that every other faculty is dependent for its vigour
and expansion: without it, the perception exer-
cises itself in vain; the memory can lay up no store
of ideas ; the judgment draw forth no comparisons;
the imagination must become blighted and barren ;
and where there is no attention whatever, the case
must necessarily verge upon fatuity.” I conceive
that persons in whom the organ of Concentrativeness
is very small, are peculiarly apt to fall into reverie,

The following is a remarkable instance of reverie
arising from excessive application :—The subject of
it was Mr. Spalding, a gentleman well known as

an eminent literary character in Germany, and

280

much respected by those who knew him. The case
was drawn up by himself, and published in the
Psychological Mayazine.

“7 was this morning engaged with a greatnumber
of people who followed each other quickly, and to
each of whom I was obliged to give my attention.
I was also under the necessity of writing much ;
but the subjects, which were various and of a trivial
and uninteresting nature, had no connexion the
one with the other; my attention, therefore, was
constantly kept on the stretch, and was continually
shifting from one subject to another. At last it
became necessary that I should write a receipt for
some money I had received on account of the poor.
I seated myself and wrote the two first words, but
in a moment found that I was incapable of proceed-
ing, for I could not recollect the words which be-
longed to the ideas that were present in my mind.
I strained my attention as much as possible, and
tried to write one letter slowly after the other,
always having an eye to the preceding one, in order
to observe whether they had the usual relationship
to each other; but I remarked, and said to myself
at the time, that the characters I was writing were
not those which I wished to write, and yet I could
not discover where the fault lay. I therefore de-

281

sisted, and partly by broken words and syllables,
and partly by gesture, I made the person who
waited for the receipt understand he should leave
me. For about half an hour there reigned a kind
of tumultuary disorder in my senses, in which I
was incapable of remarking any thing very parti-
cular, except that one series of ideas forced them-
selves involuntarily on my mind. The trifling
nature of these thoughts I was perfectly aware of,
and was also conscious that I made several efforts
to get rid of them, and supply their place by better
ones, which lay at the bottom of my soul. I en-
deavoured as much as lay in my power, considering
the great crowd of confused images which presented
themselves to my mind, to recall my principles of
religion, of conscience, and of future expectation ;
these I found equally correct, and fixed as before.
There was no deception in my external senses, for
I saw and knew every thing around me; but I could
not free myself from the strange ideas which ex-
isted in my head. I endeavoured to speak in order
to discover whether I was capable of saying any
thing that was connected ; but although I made the
greatest efforts of attention, and proceeded with

the utmost caution, I perceived that I uniformly

282

spoke other words than those I intended. My soul
was at present as little master of the organs of
speech, as it had been before of my hand in writing.
Thank God, this state did not continue very long,
for, in about half an hour, my head began to grow
clearer, the strange and tiresome ideas became less
vivid and turbulent, and I could command my own
thoughts with less interruption.

“ T now wished to ring for my servant, and desire
him to inform my wife to come to me; but I found
it still necessary to wait a little longer to exercise
myself in the right pronunciation of the few words
I had to say: and the first half hour's conversation
I had with her was, on my part, preserved with a
slow and anxious circumspection, until at last I
gradually found myself as clear and serene as in
the beginning of the day. All that now remained
was a slight headach. I recollected the receipt I
had begun to write, and in which I knew I had
blundered; and upon examining it, I observed, to
my great astonishment, that instead of the words
Jifty dollars, being one half year's rate, which I ought
to have written, the words were jifty dollars through
the salvation of Bra—, with a break after it, for the

word Bra was at the end of a line. I cannot re-

283

collect any perception, or business which I had to
transact, that could, by means of an obscure influ-
ence, have produced this phenomenon.”

Reverie, when proceeding, as in this case, from
excessive application, will seldom be difficult of
cure: the removal of the exciting cause will of itself
naturally constitute the remedy. When it arises
from such a defect in education as that already
mentioned, the cure will be more difficult, although
even then it is not always impracticable. In such
a case, the person should be strongly directed to
those subjects in which he feels most interest, and
never be made to study what he has not a positive
liking for. Active employment, and gay and
pleasant society, may effect much in restoring the
intellectual balance. In all cases whatever, he
should never be left long alone; as nothing has
such a tendency to foster this state of mind as
solitude.

CHAPTER XVII.

ABSTRACTION.

ABSTRACTION, or absence of mind, has been con-
founded with reverie, but it is, in reality, a differ-
ent intellectual operation; for as in the latter a
difficulty is experienced in making the mind bear
strongly on any one point, in the former its whole
energies are concentrated towards a single focus,
and every other circumstance is, for the time,
utterly forgotten. Such was the case with Sir
Isaac Newton when, in a fit of absence, he made a
tobacco stopper of the lady’s finger, and with Archi-
medes, who remained unconscious and unmoved
during the noise and slaughter of captured Syra-
cuse. Though, in general, abstraction is easily

broken by outward impressions, there have been

285

instances where it has been so powerful as to ren-
der the individuals labouring under it insensible to
pain. Pinel in his Nosographie Philosophique speaks
of a priest who in a fit of mental absence was un-
conscious of the pain of burning; and Cardan
brought himself into such a state as to be insensible
to all external impression.

Some men are naturally very absent; others
acquire this habit from particular pursuits, such as
mathematics, and other studies demanding much
calculation. Indeed, all studies which require deep
thinking, are apt to induce mental absence, in con-
sequence of the sensorial power being drained from
the general circumference of the mind, and directed
strongly to a certain point. This draining, while
it invigorates the organ of the particular faculty
towards which the sensorial energy is concentrated,
leaves the others in an inanimate state, and incapa-
citates them from performing their proper func-
tions ; hence persons subject to abstraction are apt
to commit a thousand ludicrous errors; they are
perpetually blundering—committing a multitude of
petty, yet harmless offences against established
rules, and for ever getting into scrapes and absurd
situations. Nothing is more common than for an

absent man to take the hat of another person

286

instead of his own, to give away a guinea for a
shilling, to mistake his lodgings, forget invitations,
and so forth. When the fit of abstraction is very
strong, he neither hears what is said to him, nor
sees what is passing around, ‘“ While you fancy,”
says Budgell, in the 77th No. of the Spectator,
‘he is admiring a beautiful woman, it is an even
wager that he is solving a proposition in Euclid;
and while you may imagine he is reading the Paris
Gazette, it is far from being impossible that he is
pulling down and rebuilding his country house.”
In some cases the individual requires to be shaken
before he can be brought to take notice of any
occurrence; and it is often difficult to make him
comprehend even the simplest proposition. Ab-
straction, therefore, bears an analogy to dreaming;
inasmuch as, in each of these states, some faculties
are active, while others are at rest. In dreaming,
however, the organs of the quiescent faculties are
in a much deeper slumber, and less easily roused
into activity than in abstraction: hence, in the great
majority of cases, abstraction is broken with greater
facility than sleep.

It appears, from the observations of the Edin-
burgh phrenologists, that individuals who have a

large development of the organ of Concentrativeness

287

are peculiarly liable to fall into a state of abstrac-
tion. The effect of such a development is fixity of
ideas—the power and tendency to think consecu-
tively and steadily upon one subject. “ In convers-
ing with some individuals,” says Mr. Combe,* “we
find them fall naturally into a connected train of
thinking; either dwelling on a subject which interests
them, till they have placed it clearly before the
mind, or passing naturally and gracefully to a con-
nected topic. Such persons uniformly have this
organ large. We meet with others, who, in simi-
lar circumstances, never pursue one idea for two
consecutive seconds, who shift from topic to topic,
without regard to natural connexion, and leave no
distinct impression on the mind of the listener ; and
this happens even with individuals in whom reflection
is not deficient; but this organ ( Concentrativeness) is,
in such persons, uniformly small.” A good endow-
ment of the power in question adds very much
to the efficiency of the intellect, by enabling its
possessor to apply his mind continuously to a
particular investigation, unannoyed by the in-
trusion of foreign and irrelevant ideas. It seems to

have been very strong in Sir Isaac Newton, whose

ee a es ree cee eS RY ft) Saeed

# System of Phrenology, p. 135.

288

liability to abstraction has already been alluded to.
‘“ During the two years,” says Biot, “which he
spent in preparing and developing his immortal
work, Philosophie Naturalis Principia Mathematica,
he lived only to calculate and to think. Oftentimes
lost in the contemplation of these grand objects, he
acted unconsciously; his thoughts appearing to pre-
serve no connexion with the ordinary affairs of life.
It is said, that frequently, on rising in the morning,
he would sit down on his bedside, arrested by some
new conception, and would remain for hours together
engaged in tracing it out, without dressing himself.”
‘‘'T'o one who asked him, on some occasion, by what
means he had arrived at his discoveries, he replied,
‘ By always thinking unto them.’ And, at another
time, he thus expressed his method of proceeding,—
‘I keep the subject constantly before me, and wait
till the first dawning opens slowly, by little and
little, into a full and clear light.’ Again, in a letter
to Dr. Bentley, he says, ‘If I have done the public
any service this way, it is due to nothing but in-

2 92)

dustry and patient thought.’” Biot mentions farther,
that, “in general, the intensity of thinking was
with him so great that it entirely abstracted his at- —
tention from other matters, and confined him exclu-

sively to one object. Thus, we see that he never

289

was occupied at the same time with two different
scientific investigations.”

The instances of abstraction upon record are so
numerous that a volume might easily be filled with
them. Hogarth, the illustrious painter, affords a
good specimen. Having got a new carriage, he
went in it to the Mansion-House, for the purpose
of paying a visit to the Lord Mayor. On leaving
the house he went out by a different door from that
by which he entered, and found that it rained hard.
Notwithstanding this, he walked homewards, and
reached his own dwelling drenched to the skin.
His wife seeing him in this state, asked him how it
happened, and what had become of his carriage
since he had not returned home in it. The truth
was, that he had actually forgotten he had a car-
riage, or had gone in one at all.

The following case, from the pleasant style in
which it is told, will amuse the reader.

“Tt is a case of one of the most profound and
clear-headed philosophical thinkers, and one of the
most amiable of men, becoming so completely ab-
sorbed in his own reflections, as to lose the per-
ception of external things, and almost that of his
own identity and existence. There are few that

have paid any attention to the finance of this coun-
Oo

290

try, but must have heard of Dr. Robert Hamilton’s
‘ Essay on the National Debt,’ which fell upon the
Houses of Parliament like a bombshell, or, rather,
which rose and illuminated their darkness like an
orient sun. There are other writings of his in
which one knows not which most to admire—the
profound and accurate science, the beautiful arrange-
ment, or the clear expression. Yet, in public, the
man was a shadow; pulled off his hat to his own
wife in the streets, and apologized for not having
the pleasure of her acquaintance ; went to his classes
in the college on the dark mornings, with one of
her white stockings on the one leg, and one of his
own black ones on the other; often spent the whole
time of the meeting in moving from the table the
hats of the students, which they as constantly
returned ; sometimes invited them to call on him,
and then fined them for coming to insult him. He
would run against a cow in the road, turn round,
beg her pardon, ‘Madam,’ and hope she was not
hurt. At other times, he would run against posts,
and chide them for not getting out of his way ;
and yet his conversation at the same time, if any
body happened to be with him, was perfect logic
and perfect music. Were it not that there may be

a little poetic license in Aberdeen story-telling, a

291]

volume might be filled with anecdotes of this amiable
and excellent man, all tending to prove how wide
the distinction is between first-rate thought and
that merely animal use of the organs of sense which
prevents ungifted mortals from walking into wells.
The fish market at Aberdeen, if still where it used
to be, is near the Dee, and has a stream passing
through it that falls into that river. The fishwomen
expose their wares in large baskets. The Doctor
one day marched into that place, where his attention
was attracted by a curiously figured stone in a stack
of chimneys. He advanced towards it, till he was
interrupted by one of the benches, from which,
however, he tumbled one of the baskets into the
stream, which was bearing the fish to their native
element. The visage of the lady was instantly
in lightning, and her voice in thunder; but the
object of her wrath was deaf to the loudest sounds,
and blind to the most alarming colours. She
stamped, gesticulated, scolded, brought a crowd
that filled the place; but the philosopher turned not
from his eager gaze and his inward meditations on
the stone. While the woman’s breath held good,
she did not seem to heed, but when that began
to fail, and the violence of the act moved not one
muscle of the object, her rage felt no bounds: she

292

seized him by the breast, and yelling, in an effort
of despair, ‘ Spagh ta ma, or I'll burst,’ sank down
among the remnant of her fish in a state of com-
plete exhaustion ; and before she had recovered, the
Doctor’s reverie was over, and he had taken his
departure.” *

Many curious anecdotes of a similar kind are
related of the Rev. Dr. George Harvest, one of the
ministers of Thames Ditton. So confused, on some
occasions, were the ideas of this singular man, that
he has been known to write a letter to one person,
address it to a second, and send it toa third. He
was once on the eve of being married to the bishop's
daughter, when, having gone a gudgeon-fishing, he
forgot the circumstance, and overstaid the canonical
hour, which so offended the lady, that she indig-
nantly broke off the match. Ifa beggar happened
to take off his hat to him on the streets, in hopes of
receiving alms, he would make him a bow, tell him
he was his most humble servant, and walkon. He
has been known on Sunday to forget the days on
which he was to officiate, and would walk into
church with his gun under his arm, to ascertain
what the people wanted there. Once, when he was

ee 8 ee

* « New Monthly Magazine,” vol. xxxvili. p. 510,

293

playing at backgammon, he poured out a glass of
wine, and it being his turn to throw, having the box
in one hand and the glass in the other, and being
extremely dry, and unwilling to lose any time, he
swallowed down both the dice, and discharged the
wine upon the dice-board. “Another time,” says
the amusing narrative which has been published of
his peculiarities, “in one of his absent fits, he mis-
took his friend’s house, and went into another, the
door of which happened to stand open; and no ser-
vant being in the way, he rambled all over the
house, till, coming into a middle room, where there
was an old lady ill in bed of a quincy, he stumbled
over the night-stool, threw a clothes-horse down,
and might not have ended there, had not the
affrighted patient made a noise at his intrusion,
which brought up the servants, who, finding Dr.
Harvest in the room, instead of the apothecary that
was momentarily expected, quieted the lady's fears,
who by this time was taken with such an immode-
rate fit of laughter at his confusion, that it broke
the quincy in her throat, and she lived many years
afterwards to thank Dr. Harvest for his unlucky
mistake.” “His notorious heedlessness was so
apparent, that no one would lend him a horse, as

he frequently lost his beast from under him, or, at

294

least, from out of his hands, it being his frequent
practice to dismount and lead the horse, putting
the bridal under his arm, which the horse sometimes
shook off, or the intervention of a post occasioned
it to fall; sometimes it was taken off by the boys,
when the parson was seen drawing his bridal after
him; and if any one asked him after the animal, he
could not give the least account of it, or how he
had lost it.” In short, the blunders which he
committed were endless, and would be considered
incredible, were they not authenticated by incon-
testible evidence. Yet, notwithstanding all this,
Harvest was a man of uncommon abilities, and an
excellent scholar.

Bacon, the celebrated sculptor, exhibited, on one
occasion, a laughable instance of absence of mind.
‘ Bacon was remarkably neat in his dress, and,
according to the costume of the old school, wore, in
fine weather, a powdered wig, ruffles, silver buckles,
with silk stockings, &c., and walked with his gold-
headed cane. Thus attired, he one day called at
St. Paul’s, shortly after having erected the statue
of the benevolent Howard, and before the boarding
which enclosed the statue had been removed. One
of his sons was employed, at this time, in finishing

the statue. After remaining a short time, he com-

295

plained of feeling somewhat cold, on which the son
proposed, as no one could overlook them, that he
should put on, as a kind of temporary spencer, an old,
torn, green shag waistcoat, with a red stuff back,
which had been left there by one of the workmen.
He said it was a ‘good thought,’ and accordingly
buttoned the waistcoat over his handsome new
coat. Shortly afterwards, he was missing, but re-
turned in about an hour, stating that he had been
to call on a gentleman in Doctor’s Commons, and
had sat chatting with his wife and daughters, whom
he had never seen before; that he found them to
be exceedingly pleasant women, though perhaps a
little disposed to laugh and titter about he knew
not what. ‘Sir,’ said the son, ‘I am afraid I can
explain their mysterious behaviour ; surely you
have not kept on that waistcoat all the time ?’ ‘ But,
as sure as I am a living man, I have,’ said he
laughing heartily, ‘and I can now account not only
for the strange behaviour of the ladies, but for all
the jokes that have been cracked about me as i
walked along the street—some crying, let him
alone, he does it for a wager, &c., &c. ; all which,
from being quite unconscious of my appearance, I
thought was levelled at some other quiz that might

be following near me; and I now recollect that,

296

whenever I looked round for the object of their
pleasantry, the people laughed, and the more 80,
as, by the merry force of sympathy, I laughed
also, although I could not comprehend what it all
meant.’”

I shall conclude by mentioning an anecdote of
Mr. Warton, the accomplished Professor of Poetry
in the University of Oxford. « This good divine,
having dined with some jolly company at a gentle-
man’s house in that city, passing through the streets
to the church, it being summer-time, his ears were
loudly saluted with the cry of « Live mackarel !’
This so much dwelt upon the Doctor’s mind, that
after a nap while the psalm was performing, as
soon as the organ ceased playing, he got up to the
pulpit, and, with eyes half open, cried out, « All
alive, alive oh!’ thus inadvertently keeping up the
reputation of a Latin proverb, which is translated
in the following lines :—

‘ Great wits to madness nearly are allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.’

“The Professor of Poetry perhaps supposed
himself yet with his companions at the convivial
table.”

Mental absence is generally incurable. In stout

subjects, depletion, purging, and low diet, will some-

297

times be of use. Where the affection seems to
arise from torpor of the nervous system, blistering
the head and internal stimuli afford the most pro-
bable means of relief. The person should associate
as much as possible with noisy, bustling people,
and shun solitude and all such studies as have a

tendency to produce abstraction.

02

CHAPTER XVIII.

SS

SLEEP OF PLANTS,

—ss

Durine night, plants seem to exist in a state
analogous to sleep. At this period they get relaxed,
while their leaves droop and become folded together.
Such is peculiarly the case with the tamarind tree,
and the leguminous plants with pinnated leaves ;
but with almost all plants it takes place in a greater
or lesser degree, although in some the change is
much more striking than in others. The trefoil,
the Oxalis and other herbs with ternate leaves, sleep
with their leaflets folded together in the erect pos-
ture. The cause of the different states in which
plants exist during the day and night has never
been correctly ascertained—some attributing it to

the influence of light, some to the vicissitudes of

299

temperature, and others to atmospherical humidity.
Probably the whole of these influences are con-
cerned. It is very evident that the presence of
certain stimuli during the day puts the leaves in a
state of activity, and excites their development ;
while the want of such stimuli in the night time
throws them into repose, relaxes them, and occasions
them to be weighed down, as if the sustaining
principle which kept them in energy was sus-
pended in the torpor of sleep. The principal of
these stimuli is unquestionably light; indeed, Lin-
nus, from the observation of stove plants, seems
to have demonstrated that it is the withdrawing of
light, and not of heat, which produces the relaxation
or Sleep of Plants, as it is commonly denominated.
The effect of light upon the leaves of the Acacia is
peculiarly striking. At sunrise they spread them-
selves out horizontally; as the heat increases they
become elevated, and at noon shoot vertically up-
wards: but as soon as the sun declines they get
languid and droop, and during night are quite pen-
dent and relaxed. During day, the leaves of most
plants are spread out and displayed, and, at the
same time, inclined towards the sun. Those of the
Helianthus annuus, the Helianthemum annuum, and

Croton tinctorium follow the course of the sun in

300

their position ; and most buds and flowers have a
tendency to turn their heads in the direction of the
great luminary of day. As an instance of this, let
us look at the sun-flower, which confronts the
source of light with its broad yellow expansion of
aspect, and hangs its gorgeous head droopingly so
soon as the object of its worship declines. The
leaves of a great number of vegetables present
changes in their position corresponding to the differ-
ent hours of the day. “Who does not know,”
says Willdenow, “that the species of Lupinus, es-
pecially Lupinus luteus turn, in the open air, their
leaves and stalks towards the sun, and follow its
course in so steady a manner, as to enable us to
specify the hour of the day from their direction.”
Such phenomena were not unknown to Pliny and
Theophrastus.

The analogy between animal and vegetable life is
still farther demonstrated by the well known fact, that
while some creatures, such as the cat and owl, sleep
during the day, and continue awake at night, certain
plants do the same thing. Such is the case with
the Tragopogon luteum which becomes closed, or,
in other words, goes to sleep at nine in the morn-
ing, and opens at night. Every hour of the day,
indeed, has some particular plant which then shuts

301
itself up: hence the idea of the Flower Dial by

means of which the hour of the day can be told
with tolerable accuracy. Some plants, which shut .
themselves up in the day time, flower at night. The
night-flowering Cereus, a species of cactus, is a beau-
tiful instance of the kind; and there are other plants
which exhibit the same interesting phenomenon.
Nothing, indeed, can be more beautiful than the
nocturnal flowering of certain members of the
vegetable world. Linneus used to go out at night
with a lantern into his garden to have an oppor-
tunity of witnessing this remarkable peculiarity in
the plants by which it is exhibited.

The analogy between the two kingdoms is ren-
dered yet more striking, when it is recollected that,
(with such exceptions as the above, ) plants increase
much more rapidly during night, which is their
time of sleep, than in the day-time, which may
be considered the period of their active or waking
existence.

The state in which plants exist in the winter
season, resembles the hybernation of animais: there
is the same torpor and apparent extinction of vita-
lity. Heat and light have the power of both reviving
plants and putting an end to hybernation. Be-
tween plants and animals, however, there is this

302
difference: that while mosé plants become torpid in
winter, only a small number of animals get into that
state; but even in such dissimilitude we can trace
an analogy; for as there are animals upon which
winter has no torpifying influence, so are there like-
wise plants. The Helleborus hyemalis or christmas
rose, flowers at the end of December, and the
Galanthus nivilis, or snow-drop, in the month of

February.

CHAPTER XIX.

Sa

GENERAL MANAGEMENT OF SLEEP.

In the foregoing pages, I have detailed at length
all the principal phenomena of sleep; and it now
only remains to state such circumstances as affect
the comfort and healthfulness of the individual
while in that condition. The first I shall mention
is the nature of the chamber in which we sleep:
this should be always large and airy. In modern
houses, these requisites are too much overlooked ;
and, while the public rooms are of great dimensions,
those appropriated for sleeping are little better than
closets. This error is exceedingly detrimental to
health. The apartments wherein so great a portion
of life is passed, should always be roomy, and, if

possible, not placed upon the ground-floor, because

304

such a situation is more apt to be damp and ill ven-
tilated than higher up.

The next consideration applies to the bed itself,
which ought to be large, and not placed close to the
wall, but at some distance from it, both to avoid
any dampness which may exist in the wall, and
admit a freer circulation of air. The curtains
should never be drawn closely together, even in the
coldest weather; and when the season is not severe,
it is a good plan to remove them altogether. The
bed, or mattress, ought to be rather hard. N othing is
more injurious to health than soft beds ; they effe-
minate the individual, render his flesh soft and
flabby, and incapacitate him for undergoing any
privation. The texture of which the couch is made,
is not of much consequence, provided it is not too
soft: hence, feather-beds, or mattresses of hair
or straw are almost equally good, if suitable
in this particular. I may mention, however, that
the hair mattress, from being cooler, and less
apt to imbibe moisture, is preferable, during the
summer season, to a bed of feathers. Those soft
yielding feather-beds, in which the body sinks
deeply, are highly improper, from the unnatural
heat and perspiration which they are sure to induce.

Air-beds have been lately recommended, but I can

305
assert, from personal experience, that they are the
worst that can possibly be employed. They become |
very soon heated to such an unpleasant degree as to
render it impossible to repose upon them with any
comfort. For bed-ridden persons, whose skin has
become irritated by long lying, the hydrostatic bed,
lately brought into use in some of the public hos-
pitals, is the best.

The pillow, as well as the bed, should be pretty
hard. When very soft, the head soon sinks in
it, and becomes unpleasantly heated. The objec-
tion made to air-beds applies with equal force
to air-pillows, which I several times attempted to
use, but was compelled to abandon, owing to the
disagreeable heat that was generated in a few
minutes.

With regard to the covering, there can be no
doubt that it is more wholesome to lie between
sheets than blankets. For the same reason, people
should avoid sleeping in flannel nightshirts. Such
a degree of warmth as is communicated by those
means is only justifiable in infancy and childhood,
or when there is actual disease or weakness of con-
stitution. Parents often commit a great error in
bringing up their young people under so effeminate
a system.

306

A common custom prevails, of warming the bed
before going to sleep. This enervating practice
should be abandoned except with delicate people,
or when the cold is very intense. It is far better
to let the bed be chafed by the natural heat of the
body, which, even in severe weather, will be suffi-
cient for the purpose, provided the clothing is abun-
dant.

We ought never to sleep overloaded with clothes,
but have merely what is sufficient to maintain a
comfortable warmth.

When a person is in health, the atmosphere of
his apartment should be cool; on this account, fires
are exceedingly hurtful, and should never be had
recourse to, except when the individual is delicate,
or the weather intolerably severe. When they be-
come requisite, smoke must be carefully guarded
against, as fatal accidents have arisen from this
cause.

The window-shutters ought never to be entirely
closed, neither ought they to be kept altogether
open. In the first. case, we are apt to oversleep
ourselves, owing to the prevailing darkness with
which we are surrounded; and in the second, the
light which fills the apartment, especially if it be

in the summer season, may disturb our repose, and

307

waken us at an earlier hour than there is any occa-
sion for. Under both circumstances, the eyes are
liable to suffer; the darkness, in the one instance,
disposes them to be painfully affected, on exposure
to the brilliant light of day, besides directly debili-
tating them—for, in remaining too much in the
gloom, whether we be asleep or awake, these
organs are sure to be more or less weakened. In
the other case, the fierce glare of the morning
sun acting upon them, perhaps for several hours
before we get up, does equal injury, making them
tender and easily affected by the light. The ex-
tremes of too much and too little light must, there-
fore, be avoided, and such a moderate portion ad-
mitted into the chamber as not to hurt the eyes,
or act as too strong a stimulus in breaking our
slumbers.

During the summer heats, the covering requires
to be diminished, so as to suit the atmospheric tem-
perature ; and a small portion of the window drawn
down from the top, to promote a circulation of air ;
but this must be done cautiously, and the current
prevented from coming directly upon the sleeper, as
it might give rise to colds, and other bad conse-
quences. The late Dr. Gregory was in the habit
of sleeping with the window drawn slightly down

308
during the whole year; and there can be no doubt
that a gentle current pervading our sleeping apart-
ments, is in the highest degree essential to health.

Nothing is so injurious as damp beds. It be-
comes every person, whether at home or abroad,
to look to this matter, and see that the bedding
on which he lies is thoroughly dry, and free from
even the slightest moisture. By neglecting such
a precaution, rheumatism, colds, inflammations, and
death itself may ensue. Indeed, these calamities
are very frequently traced to sleeping incautiously
upon damp beds. For the same reason, the walls
and floor should be dry, and wet clothes never hung
up in the room.

We should avoid sleeping in a bed that has been
occupied by thesick, till the bedding has been cleansed
and thoroughly aired. When a person has died
of any infectious disease, not only the clothes in
which he lay, but the couch itself ought to be
burned. Even the bed-stead should be carefully
washed and fumigated.

Delicate persons who have been accustomed to
sleep upon feather-beds, must be cautious not to
exchange them rashly for any other.

On going to sleep, all sorts of restraints must be
removed from the body; the collar of the night-shirt

309

should be unbuttoned, and the neckcloth taken off.
With regard to the head, the more lightly it is
covered the better: on this account, we should wear
a thin cotton or silk night-cap; and this is still better
if made of net-work. Some persons wear worsted, or
flannel caps, but these are never proper, except in
old or rheumatic subjects. The grand rule of health
is to keep the head cool, and the feet warm; hence,
the night-cap cannot be too thin. In fact, the chief
use of this piece of clothing is to preserve the hair,
and prevent it from being disordered and matted
together.

Sleeping in stockings is a bad and uncleanly habit.
By accustoming ourselves to do without any cover-
ing upon the feet, we shall seldom experience cold
in these parts, if we have clothing enough to keep
the rest of the system comfortable ; and should they
still remain cold, this can easily be obviated by
wrapping a warm flannel-cloth around them, or by
applying to them, for a few minutes, a heated iron,
or a bottle of warm water.

The posture of the body must be attended to.
The head should be tolerably elevated, especially in
plethoric subjects ; and the position, from the neck
downwards, as nearly as possible horizontal. The

half-sitting posture, with the shoulders considerably

310

raised, is injurious, as the thoracic and abdominal
viscera are thereby compressed, and respiration,
digestion, and circulation materially impeded. Lying
upon the back is also improper, in consequence of
its tendency to produce night-mare. Most people
pass the greater part of the night upon the side,
which is certainly the most comfortable position
that can be assumed in sleep. According to Dr.
A. Hunter, women who love their husbands gene-
rally lie upon the right side. This interesting
point I have no means of ascertaining, although,
doubtless, the ladies are qualified to speak decided-
ly upon the subject. [have known individuals who
could not sleep except upon the back ; but these are
rare cases.

I have mentioned the necessity of a free circulation
of air. On this account, it is more wholesome to
sleep single than double, for there is then less de-
struction of oxygen; and the atmosphere is much
purer and cooler. For the same reason, the prac-
tice, so common in public schools, of having several
beds im one room, and two or three individuals
im each bed, must be deleterious. When more
than one sleep in a single bed, they should take
care to place themselves in such a position as not to

breathe in each other's faces. Some persons have

oll

a dangerous custom of covering their heads with the
bed-clothes. The absurdity of this practice needs
no comment.

Before going to bed, the body should be brought
into that state which gives us the surest chance of
dropping speedily asleep. If too hot, its tempera-
ture ought to be reduced by cooling drinks, exposure
to the open air, sponging, or even the cold bath; if
too cold, it must be brought into a comfortable state
by warmth; for both cold and heat act as stimuli,
and their removal is necessary before slumber can
ensue. A full stomach, also, though it sometimes pro-
motes, generally prevents sleep ; consequently, sup-
per ought to be dispensed with, except by those who,
having been long used to this meal, cannot sleep

without it. As a general rule, the person who eats

nothing for two or three hours before going to rest,

will sleep better than he who does. His sleep will
also be more refreshing, and his sensations upon
awaking much more gratifying. The Chinese re-
commend brushing the teeth previous to lying
down: this is a good custom.

Sleeping after dinner is pernicious. On awaking
from such indulgence, there is generally some
degree of febrile excitement, in consequence of

the latter stages of digestion being hurried on: it

312

is only useful in old people, and in some cases of
disease.

The weak, and those recovering from protracted
illnesses, must be indulged with more sleep than
such as are vigorous. Sleep, in them, supplies, in
some measure, the place of nourishment, and thus
becomes a most powerful auxiliary for restoring
them to health. Much repose is likewise necessary
to enable the system to recover from the effects of
dissipation.

Too little and too much sleep are equally in-
jurious. Excessive wakefulness, according to Hip-
pocrates, prevents the aliment from being digested,
and generates crude humours. Too much sleep
produces lassitude and corpulency, and utterly de-
bases and stupifies the mind. Corpulent people
being apt to indulge in excessive sleep, they should
break this habit at once, as, in their case, it is pecu-
liarly unwholesome. They ought to sleep little,
and that little upon hard beds.

The practice of sleeping in the open air, cannot
be too strongly reprobated. It is at all times dan-
gerous, especially when carried into effect under a
burning sun, or amid the damps of night. In tropical
climates, where this custom is indulged in during

the day, it is not unusual for the person to be struck

313

with a coup-de-soleil, or some violent fever; and, in our
own country, nothing is more common than inflam-
mations, rheumatisms, and dangerous colds, originat-
ing from sleeping upon the ground, either during
the heat of the day, or when the evening has set in
with its attendant dews and vapours.

As respects the repose of children it may be re-
marked that the custom of rocking them asleep in
the cradle, is not to be recommended, sanction-
ed though it be by the voice of ages. This method
of procuring slumber, not only heats the infant
unnecessarily, but, in some cases, disorders the
digestive organs, and, in most, produces a sort of
artificial sleep, far less conducive to health, than
that brought on by more natural means. According
to some writers, it has also a tendency to induce
water in the head, a circumstance which I think pos-
sible, although I never knew a case of that disease
which could be traced to such a source. The
cradle, then, should be abandoned, so far as the
rocking is concerned, and the child simply lulled to
repose in the nurse’s arms, and then deposited quiet-
ly in bed. Sleep will often be induced by gently
scratching or rubbing the top of the child’s head.

This fact is well known to some nurses, by whom
P

314

the practice is had recourse to for the purpose of
provoking slumber in restless children. For the
first month of their existence, children sleep almost
continually, and they should be permitted to do so,
for at this early age they cannot slumber too much:
calm and long-continued sleep is a favourable symp-
tom, and ought to be cherished rather than pre-
vented, during the whole period of infancy. When,
however, a child attains the age of three or four
months, we should endeavour to manage so that its
periods of wakefulness may occur in the day-time,
instead of at night. By proper care, a child may
be made to sleep at almost any hour ; and, as this
is always an object of importance, it should be
sedulously attended to in the rearing of children.
Until about the third year, they require a little
sleep in the middle of the day, and pass half their
time in sleep. Every succeeding year, till they attain
the age of seven, the period allotted to repose should
be shortened one hour, so that a child of that age may
pass nine hours, or thereabouts, out of the twenty-
four, in a state of sleep. Children should never be
awakened suddenly, or with a noise, in consequence
of the terror and starting which such a method of

arousing them produces: neither should they be

315

brought all at once from a dark room into a strong
glare of light, lest their eyes be weakened, and per-
manent injury inflicted upon these organs.

The position in which children sleep requires to
be carefully attended to. Sir Charles Bell mentions
that the eneuresis infantum, with which they are so
often affected, frequently arises from lying upon
the back, and that it will be removed or prevent-
ed by accustoming them to lie on the side. It is
also of the greatest importance that they be kept
sufficiently warm. I believe that many infantile
diseases arise from the neglect of this precaution.
Children have little power of evolving heat; on
this account, when delicate, they should never be
permitted to sleep alone, bfiit made to lie with
the nurse, that they may receive warmth from her
body.

.. At whatever period we go to sleep, one fact is
certain, that we can never with impunity convert
day into night, Even in the most scorching seasons
of the year, it is better to travel under the burning
sunshine, than in the cool of the evening, when
the dews are falling and the air is damp. A case
in support of this statement, is given by Valan-
gin in his work on Diet. Two Colonels in the
French army had a dispute whether it was most

316

safe to march in the heat of the day, or in the
evening. To ascertain this point, they got per-
mission from the commanding officer to put their
respective plans into execution. Accordingly, the
one with his division marched during the day,
although it was in the heat of summer, and rested
all night—the other slept in the day-time, and
marched during the evening and part of the night.
The result was, that the first performed a journey
of six hundred miles, without losing a single man
or horse, while the latter lost most of his horses,
and several of his men.

It now becomes a question at what hour we should
retire to rest, how long our rest ought to continue,
and when it should=be broken in the morning.
These points I shall briefly discuss, in the order
in which they stand.

It is not very easy to ascertain the most appro-_
priate hour for going to bed, as this depends very
much upon the habits and occupation of the indivi-
dual. Labourers and all hard wrought people, who
are obliged to get up betimes, require to go to rest
early; and, in their case, nine o'clock may be the
best hour. Those who are not obliged to rise early,
may delay the period of retiring to rest for an hour

or two longer; and may thus go to bed at ten or

317

eleven. These are the usual periods allotted among
the middle ranks of life for this purpose; and it
may be laid down as a rule, that to make a custom
of remaining up for a later period than eleven,
must be prejudicial. Those, therefore, who habi-
tually delay going to bed till twelve, or one, or
two, are acting in direct opposition to the laws of
health, in so far as they are compelled to pass in
sleep a portion of the ensuing day, which ought te
be appropriated to wakefulness and exertion. Late
hours are in every respect hurtful, whether they be
employed in study or amusement. <A fresh supply
of stimulus is thrown upon the mind, which pre-
vents it from sinking into slumber at the proper
period, and restlessness, dreaming, and disturbed
repose inevitably ensue. Among other things, the
eyes are injured, those organs suffering much more
from the candle-light, to which they are necessarily
“exposed, than from the natural light of day.

With regard to the necessary quantity of sleep,
so much depends upon age, constitution, and em-
ployment, that it is impossible to lay down any
fixed rule which will apply to all cases. Jeremy
Taylor states that three hours only in the twenty-
four should be devoted to sleep. Baxter extends the
period to four hours, Wesley to six, Lord Coke

318

and Sir William Jones to seven, and Sir John
Sinclair to eight. With the latter I am disposed
to coincide. Taking the average of mankind, we
shall come as nearly as possible to the truth when
we say that nearly one-third part of life ought to be
spent in sleep: in some cases, even more may be
necessary, and in few can a much smaller portion be
safely dispensed with. When a person is young,
strong, and healthy, an hour or two less may be
sufficient; but childhood and extreme old age re-
quire a still greater portion. No person who passes
only eight hours in bed, can be said to waste his time
in sleep. If, however, he exceeds this, and is, at
the same time, in possession of vigour and youth, he
lays himself open to the charge of slumbering away
those hours which should be devoted to some other
purpose. According to Georget, women should
sleep a couple of hours longer than men. For the
former he allows six or seven hours, for the latter
eight or nine. I doubt, however, if the female
constitution, generally speaking, requires more
sleep than the male; at least it is certain that
women endure protracted wakefulness better than
men, but whether this may result from custom is a
question worthy of being considered. }

Barry, in his work on Digestion, has made

319

an ingenious, but somewhat whimsical, calculation
on the tendency of sleep to prolong life. He
asserts, that the duration of human life may be
ascertained by the number of pulsations which the
individual is able to perform. Thus, if a man’s life
extends to 70 years, and his heart throbs 60 times
each minute, the whole number of its pulsations will
amount to 2,207,520,000 ; but if, by intemperance,
or any other cause, he raises the pulse to 75 in the
minute, the same aumber of pulsations would be
completed in 56 years, and the duration of life
abbreviated 14 years. Arguing from these data, he
alleges, that sleep has a tendency to prolong life,
as, during its continuance, the pulsations are less
numerous than in the waking state. There is a
sort of theoretical truth in this statement, but it is
liable to be modified by so many circumstances, that
its application can never become general. If this
were not the case, it would be natural to infer that
the length of a man’s life would correspond with
that of his slumbers ; whereas it is well known, that
too much sleep debilitates the frame, and lays the
foundation of various diseases, which tend to shorten
rather than extend the duration of life.

_Those who indulge most in sleep, generally require

320

the least of it. Such are the wealthy and luxu-
rious, who pass nearly the half of their existence
in slumber, while the hard-working peasant and
mechanic, who would seem, at first sight, to re-
quire more than any other class of society, are
contented with seven or eight hours of repose—
a period brief in proportion to that expended by
them in toil, yet sufficiently long for the wants of
nature, as is proved by the strength and health
which they almost uniformly enjoy. |

For reasons already stated, more sleep is re-
quisite in winter than in summer. Were there even
no constitutional causes for this difference, we should
be disposed to sleep longer in the one than in the
other, as some of the circumstances which induce us
to sit up late and rise early in summer, are wanting
during winter; and we consequently feel disposed
to lie longer in bed during the latter season of the
year.

The hour of getting up in the morning is not of
less importance than that at which we ought to lie
down at night. There can be no doubt that one of
the most admirable conducives to health is early
rising. “ Let us,” says Solomon, “ go forth into

the fields; let us lodge in the villages; let us get up

321

early to the vineyards ; let us see if the vine flourish
—if the tender grape appear—if the pomegranates
bud forth.”

Almost all men who have distinguished them-
selves in science, literature, and the arts, have been
early risers. The industrious, the active-minded,
the enthusiast in the pursuit of knowledge or gain,
are up betimes at their respective occupations ;
while the sluggard wastes the most beautiful period
of life in pernicious slumber. Homer, Virgil, and
Horace are all represented as early risers: the
same was the case with Paley, Franklin, Priestley,
Parkhurst, and Buffon, the latter.of whom ordered
his valet-de-chambre to awaken him every morning,
and compel him to get up by force if he evinced
any reluctance: for this service the valet was re-
warded with a crown each day, which recompense
he forfeited if he did not oblige his master to get
out of bed before the clock struck six. Bishops
Jewel and Burnet rose regularly every morning at
four o’clock. Sir Thomas More did the same thing;
and so convinced was he of the beneficial effects of
getting up betimes, that, in his “ Utopia,” he re-
presented the inhabitants attending lectures before
sunrise. Napoleon was an early riser; so was
Frederick the Great and Charles XII.; so is the

P2

322

Duke of Wellington; and so, in truth, is almost
every one distinguished for energy and indefatiga-
bility of mind.

Every circumstance contributes to render early
rising advisable to those who are in the enjoyment
of health. There is no time equal in beauty and
freshness to the morning, when nature has just
parted with the gloomy mantle which night had
fiung over her, and stands before us like a young
bride, from whose aspect the veil which covered
her loveliness, has been withdrawn. The whole
material world has a vivifying appearance. The
husbandman is up at his labour, the forest leaves
sparkle with drops of crystal dew, the flowers raise
their rejoicing heads towards the sun, the birds
pour forth their anthems of gladness; and the wide
face of creation itself seems as if awakened and
refreshed from a mighty slumber. All these things,
however, are hid from the eyes of the sluggard ;
nature, in her most glorious aspect, is, to him, a
sealed book; and while every scene around him is
full of beauty, interest, and animation, he alone is
passionless and uninspired. Behold him stretched
upon his couch of rest! In vain does the clock
proclaim that the reign of day has commenced!

In vain does the morning light stream fiercely in

323

by the chinks of his window, as if to startle him
from his repose! He hears not—he sees not, for
blindness and deafness rule over him with despotic
sway, and lay a deadening spell upon his faculties.
And when he does at length awake—far on in the
day—from the torpor of this benumbing sleep, he
is not refreshed. He does not start at once into
new life--an altered man, with joy in his mind,
and vigour in his frame. On the contrary, he is
dull, languid, and stupid, as if half recovered from
a paroxysm of drunkenness. He yawns, stretches
himself, and stalks into the breakfast parlour, to
partake in solitude, and without appetite, of his
unrefreshing meal—while his eyes are red and
gummy, his beard unshorn, his face unwashed, and
his clothes disorderly, and ill put on. Uncleanli-
ness and sluggishness generally go hand in hand;
for the obtuseness of mind which disposes a man
to waste the most precious hours of existence in
debasing sleep, will naturally make him neglect his
person.

The character of the early riser is the very
reverse of the sloven’s. His countenance is ruddy,
his eye joyous and serene, and his frame full of
vigour and activity. His mind, also, is clear and

unclouded, and free from that oppressive languor

324

which weighs like a night-mare upon the spirit of
the sluggard. The man who rises betimes, is in the
fair way of laying in both health and wealth; while
he who dozes away his existence in unnecessary
sleep, will acquire neither. On the contrary, he
runs every chance of losing whatever portion of
them be may yet be in possession of, and of sinking
fast in the grade of society—a bankrupt both in
person and in purse.*

The most striking instances of the good effects of
early rising, are to be found in our peasantry and
farmers, whose hale complexions, good appetites,
and vigorous persons, are evidences of the benefit

derived from this custom, conjoined with labour ;

* Tn the will of the late Mr. James Seargeant of the borough
of Leicester, is the following clause relative to early rising :—
‘¢ As my nephews are fond of indulging in bed in a morning,
and as I wish them te improve the time while they are young,
I direct that they shall prove to the satisfaction of my execu-
tors, that they have got out of bed in the morning, and either
employed themselves in business, or taken exercise in the open
air, from 5 o’clock every morning, from the 5th of April to the
10th of October, being three hours each day, and from 7 o’clock
in the morning from the 10th of October to the 5th of April,
being two hours every morning for two whole years: this to
be done for some two years during the first seven years, to the
satisfaction of my executors, who may excuse them in case of
illness, but the task must be made up when they are well, and
if they will not do this, they shall not receive any share of my

property.”

325

while the wan, unhealthy countenances and en-
feebled frames of those who keep late hours, lie
long in bed, and pass the night in dissipation, study,
or pleasure, are equally conclusive proofs of the
pernicious consequences resulting from an opposite
practice.

Karly rising, therefore, is highly beneficial; but
care should be taken not to carry it to excess.
It can never be healthful to rise till the sun has
been for some time above the horizon; for, until
this is the case, there is a dampness in the air
which must prove injurious to the constitution,
especially when it is not naturally very strong.
Owing to this, early rising is injurious to most
delicate people; and, in all cases, the heat of the
sun should be allowed to have acquired some
strength before we think of getting out of doors.
No healthy man in the summer, should lie longer
in bed than six o’clock. If he does so, he loses the
most valuable part of the day, and injures his own
constitution. Persons subject to gout, should always
go to sleep early, and rise early. The former miti-
gates the violence of the evening paroxysm, which
is always increased by wakefulness; and the latter
lessens the tendency to plethora, which is favoured

by long protracted sleep.

326

It is common in some of the foreign universities
to go to bed at eight, and rise at three or four in
the morning; and this plan is recommended by
Willich in his “ Lectures on Diet and Regimen.”
Sir John Sinclair, in allusion to it, judiciously ob-
serves, “ I have no doubt of the superior healthi-
ness, in the winter time, of rising by day-light, and
using candle-light at the close of the day, than
rising by candle-light, and using it some hours
before day-light approaches. It remains to be
ascertained by which system the eyes are least
likely to be affected.”

Dr. Franklin, in one of his ingenious Essays,
has some fine observations on early rising; and
makes an amusing calculation of the saving that
might be made in the city of Paris alone, by using
the sunshine instead of candles. This saving he esti-
mates at 96,000,000 of livres, or £4,000,000 sterling.
This is mentioned in a satirical vein, but probably
there is a great deal of truth in the statement. In-
deed, if people were to go sooner to bed, and get
up earlier, it is inconceivable what sums might be
saved; but, according to the absurd custom of
polished society, day is, in a great measure, con-
verted into night, and the order of things reversed

in a manner at once capricious and hurtful,

327

To conclude. The same law which regulates
our desire for food, also governs sleep. As we
indulge in sleep to moderation or excess, it becomes
a blessing or a curse—in the one case recruiting the
energies of nature, and diffusing vigour alike over
the mind and frame: in the other, debasing the
character of man, stupifying his intellect, enfeebling
his body, and rendering him useless alike to others
and to himself. The glutton, the drunkard, and
the sloven bear the strictest affinity to each other,
both in the violation of nature’s laws, and in the
consequences thence entailed upon themselves.
What in moderation is harmless or beneficial, in
excess is a curse; and sleep, carried to the latter
extreme, may be pronounced an act of intemperance

almost as much as excessive eating or drinking.

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INDEX.

Abercrombie, Dr., case related by, of the verification

ofadream, . é : : ‘ é . Ps
, his distinction between dreaming
and insanity, . ati : : ° :
Absorption increased by sleep, .- . : : :
Animal life, F . $ . ‘ : :
—magnetism, . : . . . °
Aristotle, his account of the dew of fishes, . :
Armitage, Elizabeth, a great sleeper, ‘ ‘ .
Awaking, phenomena of, . : Rhone ‘ .
Bacon the sculptor, anecdote of, : : z .
Barclay, Captain, anecdote of, . ; : one
Barry, curious calculation by, - ° ° ‘ °
Baxter, his theory of dreaming, ‘ ‘ ‘ Ps
Bayle, his account of spectral illusions, . ‘ é
Beattie, Dr., facts concerning, . , ‘ A °
Bed, directions with regard tothe, . d , :
Bell, Sir Charles, on the eneuresis infantum, a
Bichat, his division of life, é s ‘ P A
Birds, sleep of, . , ‘ F F ‘ ‘ ‘

Blacklock, Dr., the peculiarity of his dreams, -

—-——., curious anecdote of,

Blake the painter, extraordinary case of, - ‘

Blindness, dreams modified by, - : : . .

Boerhaave, anecdote of, : ; . : ‘ :
, case spoken of by, . ‘ : : J

Bostock, Dr., his case, SO SP pee re ‘

PAGE

330

Bourdeaux, Archbishop of, case of somnambulism, re-

lated by, ° : : : : : ° ,
Brain, effects of its size in reference to sleep, . .
» determination of blood to the, induces sleep, .
Browne, Mr. W. A. F., cases bys. : 5 ;
Buffon denies any affinity between hybernation and

sleep, . 5 : : : : . : °

Buzareingues, M. Giron de, experiments by, to produce
dreams at will, . : 5 5 : : 7
Byron, Lord, scene described by, in his “ Parasina,” .

Cabanis, fact concerning, |. - , . 5 ;
Cesar, Julius, the apparition of, which appeared to
Brutus, accounted for, . . 3
Caligula tormented by frightful dotiit : .
Cardan, fact concerning, . : : ae ORs
Carmichael, Mr., his explanation of the process of
waking, : ° : : ° , ° :
—— » Supposes sleep to be the period when
assimilation goes on in the brain, . ° °
Castel, Mr., observation by, : : ° , ,
Catalepsy, . : : 5 : : é ;
Chapelain, M., saeco performed by, upon a lady
under the magnetic influence, : : ; ;
Children, dreams of, . * ; °
——-, sleep of, 5 : : A : ‘
» directions regarding the sleep of, . °

Circulation, its rapidity diminished by sleep, . °
Cold produces sleep, . : ° . 5
——, sleep from, ° : : : : :
Coleridge, Mr., account by, of acd origin of Kubla
Khan, : 5 “ ;
Colquhoun, Mr., the Parisian report tr seni by,
Combe, Mr., cases mentioned by, ‘ i : :
——-, his remarks on Concentrativeness, . :

PAGE

331

Combe, Dr., case of spectral illusion by, . ; 4
Concentrativeness, effect of a large development of, in
inducing abstraction, . . . s : .
Condorcet, fact concerning, : ‘ . ° :
Conolly, Dr., case related by, . : 5 n
Cook, Captain, case extracted from his “ Voyages,” .
Cullen, his remark on the effect of monotony, . .
Culpepper, Lord, trial of his brother, : ;

Cumin, Dr., case related by, ; ‘ ‘ F ;

Currie, Dr., his remarks on the visions of hypochon-

driay . ° : é P ‘ ; a ‘
Darwin, Dr., fact noticed by, . : ‘

» method recommended by, to prevent

attacks of night-mare, ; - . ‘ .

» case of sleep-talking described by, ‘

Day-Mare, = . . S2t toes . ;

Dead, visions of the, . wu Bs : ‘ ; 4

Deafness, dreams modified by, . ‘ ‘ ‘a ,
Democritus, his theory of dreaming, . é F
Dogs, dreams of, . : : : ° F °

Donne, Dr., his case of spectral illusion, . : °

Dreaming, . : : ‘ ° : . ‘

Dreams, causes of, ‘ ‘ 2 4 ‘5 ‘ .
» Management of, : ' : :

= » prophetic power of, . . : . ‘

Drowning, ° ° ° ° ; , ° ,

Drowsiness, Ail ; : ‘ ; ; ;

Drunkenness, analogy between it and dreaming,

——, nature of the dreams induced by, -

Dubrie, Mr., anecdote of, . : F : : :

Dull sermon, the effect of a, in inducing sleep, . “

Dumbness, case of, cured by a frightful dream, . 3
Dyce, Dr., remarkable case of somnambulism, re-
lated by, ; ; ‘ ‘ A ; : :

PAGE

266

251
219

167

332

PAGE
Early rising, benefits of, . ‘ : ‘ 822
Edwards, Dr., fact by; concerning hybernating animals, 216
Ellicot, Major, remarkable case related by, . 185
Fairies, belief in, accounted for, « j : A , 259
Familiar spirits, ‘ . . : . ° ° 245
Fanshawe, Lady, case from her “‘ Memoirs,” 118
Fish, sleep of, . “ é ; ° . 9
Forestus, case of day-mare related by, ‘ : , 156
Fetus, state of the, . . ‘ ‘ 34
Franklin, Dr., his case of somnambulism, : ; 167
-, amusing calculation by, é : . 326

————, Captain, fact stated by, concerning the
freezing of fish, . : : é . : . 216
Gall, Dr., cases of somnambulism related by, . . 169-172
———, on spectral illusions, : ° . : 244
George III., method employed to procure him sleep, 200
Georget on the sleep of women, ‘ : ‘ . 318
Gooch, curious case related by, . F i ‘ 34
Good, Dr., his remarks on sleep-walking, a, ‘ 160
— , his description of waking dreams, . ° 236
Goose, the, a very light sleeper, ‘ ‘ 9
Gordon, John, Esq., case mentioned by, . ? ; 33
Gregory, Dr., case of, : ‘ . : 250
Grey, Earl, haunted by a bloody head, ‘ - 244
Griffith’s, Mrs., verification of her dreams, . 116
Grokatzhi, George, case of, 233
Guilty, dreams of the, ‘ : . 103
Habit, sleep modified by, . ; . ‘ 30
Hamilton, Dr. Robert, anecdote of, . Z ; é 290
Hare sleeps with its eyes open, . ‘ : ; ; 25
Harvest, Dr. George, anecdotes of, . 5 ;: é 292

333

Haycock, Dr., delivered sermons and prayers in his
sleep, . ° : ° ; ° . . :
Hazlitt, his opinion, that in sleep we are always
thinking, disputed, ° : ° “ . .
Heat produces sleep, : . ° ; ° °
Hildesheim, his remark concerning night-mare,
Hoffbauer, case related by him of murder occasioned

by a frightful dream, ° : ° ° :
Hogarth, anecdote of, 5 ; . - ; :
Hood, Mr., incongruous dream related by, ° .
Hoole, Mr., his account of Tasso’s familiar spirit, .
Horror, a frequent accompaniment of dreams, . .
Horses dream, . : é ; ‘ , ‘ :
Hunter, Dr. A., his remark on the position of women,
Hybernation, . : : : : : : °
Hypochondriac, visions of the, . . : geist
Illusion of dreams, . ‘ . é 5 ‘ ‘
Insanity, curious case of, occasioned by a frightful

dream, sea Ue 3 ‘ : ; . :
——-—_—., analogy between it and dreaming, . .
Irish porter, case of, « : . ° : 2 °

Kubla Khan composed by Mr. Coleridge in a dream,

Lady of Nismes, extraordinary case of, . ° :
Levison, Mr., ease of spectral illusion by, é

Life, definition of, : : . ‘ 5 . °
Love as experienced in dreams, ; é . .
Lucretius, his theory of dreaming, . ; F .

Lyall, Mary, a great sleeper, ° ° ° :
Lyttleton, Lord, case of, . é : 5 5 é

M
Mackay, James, anecdote of, ; : ‘ ; ‘

» Miss, verification of her dream, . : ‘

PAGE

43-98

334

PAGE
Martinet, cases of somnambulism described by, » 169-171
Meal, a heavy, induces sleep, : : ° ° 16
Moisture, torpor produced by a want of, . : : 217
Moivre, De, a great sleeper, ; , } ‘ ; 35
Murder, case of, occasioned by a frightful dream, : 74.
Narcotics, the manner in which they induce sleep,_- 16
—— » nature of the visions induced by, . » 63-95
Nervous energy, how its distribution occasions sleep, . 17

Newton, Sir Isaac, anecdotes of, . ; . 5 - 284-288
Nicolai, case of, . : , ‘ ; ; ; ; 255
Night, the time for sleep, . : “ : ; : 3
Night- Mare, ° : : ° : ; : : 133

Old age, sleep greatly modified in, ° : : » 85-47
“‘ Opium Eater,” extracts from his “ Confessions,” . 60-95
Organic life, ‘ : : ° : . : ° 6
Orvin, Elizabeth, a great sleeper, = . : : : 32
Parr, Dr., remarks on dreaming by, : . . 67
Parrot, the, said to dream, . ‘. é ‘ . 45
Past and forgotten events renewed by dreams, . : 81
Perkins, Elizabeth, a great sleeper, . , ° - 32-210
Perspiration increased by sleep, : . : : 22
Pichegru, General, curious fact concerning, ; ‘. 88
Pillow, directions with regard to the, . “ 5 305
Plants, sleep of, . . : ‘ A . : 298
Polydori, Dr., subject to Saas, 5 - ‘ 155
Positions assumed in sleep, . . . . . 18-24-809
Pritchard, Dr., case of somnambulism spoken of by, 169
Profoundness of sleep, varieties of, —. . , : 26
Protracted sleep, VERS Ac. en. Nae 208
Pulse, state of the, in sleep, : - ; : ‘ 19

Quin, the celebrated player, fact concerning, . ; 32

335

PAGE
Reid, Dr., curious facts concerning, . ‘ ‘ +) oes
Reverie, : 5 ‘ ‘ , ° ‘ . : 276
R——d of Bowland, case of, F ‘ ‘ ° 128
Rush, Dr., his distinction between dreaming ee celi-
rium, * . ° . 5 ° ° : 44
Russel, Lady, narrowly escaped premature interment, 226
Sanctorius, his remarks on perspiration, : ° 22
Schidmaizig, Bernard, case of, . : ‘ ; : 74

Scott, Sir Walter, remarks by, on the case of Lord
Lyttleton, . ° . . ° : ° . 124

-, curious case of a verified dream re-

lated by him in the Antiquary, . . ‘ : 128

——e

Scott executed for murder, case of, . : ‘ : 126
Seargeant, James, Mr., his will, ‘ ‘ : : 324
Second Sight accounted for, . P : . . 258
Secretions, effect of sleep on the, Spats : : 21
Sensorial power, the, . ‘ : ° . . 16
Shorigny, case of, : : : ° . . : 227
Simpson, Mr., case of spectral illusion related by, . 261
Sinclair, Sir John, his remarks on early rising, : 326
Sleep of plants, : : ° ° . . . 298
Sleep, general management of, . : . ; : 303
Sleep-walking, . . : ° . ° : . 159
Sleep in general, ; . : ° . : ° : 38
Sleep-talking, . : : : ee Ete , . 179
Sleeplessness, . Ean yn ete ‘ . ° 193

Sleep from cold, : . ; : “ : ‘ ° 215
Sluggard, picture of the, . ; : : : ? 322
Snoring, ° ° . : ° : . ° 20
Somnambulism, analogy between it and madness, . 163
Spalding, Mr., his case, . ° ays ° ; 279
Spectral Illusions, : . : : ° . . 241
Squire Archdeacon, case related by, - ners : 72
Stewart, Dugald, Mr., facts related by, ; : : 54,

336

PAGE
Stewart, Mr., the pedestrian, statement by, ; 4 107
Stilling, Jung, Dr., saw visions, : ; : : 244
Stupor, difference between it and sleep, : : ; 5
Suetonius, his picture of the tyrant Caligula, . ; 104.
Surprise, absence of, in dreams, : : ‘ ‘. 83

Tasso, his familiar spirit, . : : ; : ; 245

Time, perception of, curiously affected by dreaming, . 59
Townsend, Colonel, extraordinary case of, 4 . 229
Trance, ; or : ‘ : , ; . 224
Vision, effect of sleep on the organs of, : ‘ : 22
Voluntary waking dreams, “ : ‘ ‘ : 236

Waller, Mr., cases of dreaming illusion related by, - 91-142

Warton, Mr., anecdote of, . . wise . 296
Wasse, Mr., on: the effect of rest upon the stature, : 38
Welsh girl, curious case of a, ; ; : : ‘ 81
Wonder, effect of a large development of, in inducing
apparitions, : ‘ ° : . 244
Xenophon, his recommendation to the Greek troops, 223
Yawning, . ~ * sg ‘ : ‘ : : 18
Young lady, dream related by a, : . é : 99
ERRATA.

Page 45, line 11, for who, read which.
—— 63,.—- 16, — disassociated, read dissociated.

THE END.

GLASGOW : *
EDWARD KHULL, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY.

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